


Fade Out Lines

by whatshouldntbe (orphan_account)



Series: Secrets [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - High School, Drama, F/M, M/M, Magic Revealed, Multi, References of Child Abuse, Romantic Comedy, Supernatural Elements, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:50:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 11
Words: 92,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/whatshouldntbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Lydia—you need to stay away from right now," Stiles says shakily, trying to contain himself. "I don't want to do anything we're both going to regret because I don't know what happened tonight but I'm not exactly feeling like myself."</p><p>"Yeah?" Lydia rumbles as she steps out of the shadows, body completely naked, hair wild and bushy, and she's covered in dirt and blood from head to toe. The knife Stiles threw at her is peeking out from her right shoulder. She reaches up and wraps a clawed hand around the handle and pulls it out with a grunt. The wound closes up in an instant. "Guess that makes two of us," she smirks as her eyes flashes with red.</p><p>Stiles breath catches.</p><p>"Guess what?" Lydia smirks, red eyes gleaming. "I'm the Alpha now."</p><p>(ARGENT AU. COMPLETE.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first try at this fandom and I am incredibly nervous. But I got this idea and I couldn't let it slip through my fingers. This will be a slow build, and I'm wavering back and forth between making it Sterek or keeping it purely Scott/Stiles, which I'm not sure if I will just flip my desk over in the end and just turn it into a threesome. I'll have to see how things go. I don't like to plan ahead but to go along for the ride. Hopefully you all do too.
> 
> If you like it, maybe rec it to others too? Please?
> 
> http://whatshouldntbe.tumblr.com

_A man's moral conscience is the curse he had to accept from the gods in order to gain from them the right to dream._

**-William Faulkner**

888

( **this story is going in a different direction than initially planned** )

Stiles Argent is fifteen and exhausted.

His older sister, Allison, has only herself to blame.

The night they'd finally settled into their cozy new home for what had to be the billionth time, Allison had stomped up to her room with the rage of a 12 year old girl and kindly slammed her door. Stiles suspected that it had to do with the fact that she'd reach the end of her rope with all the moving their family does. And she was also upset because she was the only one not okay with it.

Sure, it sucked. But Stiles had always been a free motion type of guy. The idea of jumping from place to place didn't faze him like it did Allison. It was hard, of course it was. He always made great friends wherever he settled down, always found an easy rhythm to his life that he could get used to for the extension of forever but deep down he always knew it wouldn't last. But he accepted it.

And that was Allison's problem. She always had denial when it came to the predictability of their parents. Always clung to belief that every move would be the _last_ move—and so she fell in love with whatever state, town, neighborhood they settled in. And Allison is the type that when she falls, she falls so ridiculously hard.

Needless to say, she was pretty pissed when they had to up and leave Tokyo to come to Beacon Hills.

Stiles, on the other hand, has been looking forward to it.

So when Allison had stomped off, (as she always seemed to do lately), Stiles had shrugged when their parents had looked at him—like _he_ had all the answers (laughable). Then he had proceeded to go into their kitchen, cut open every box on the floor until he found a bowl, a spoon and his Reese's Puff cereal. They had no milk, but Stiles made up in imagination what he lacked in reality (as always).

But this is all besides the point because that only partially explains why he's partly passed out in the back of his dad's red SUV as their dad drives them to school for their first day. He's semi-unconscious because Allison, who had refused to leave her room for anything last night, spent the _entire night_ texting Stiles about all the things she really should have been taking up with their parents and not Stiles because Stiles's favorite time of the day was night and sleeping through it. But he's got such the soft spot for his older sister that he'd forgone his favorite nightly ritual to text back all the positives about the situation.

Allison had mostly been hung up over the fact that her and Stiles would be in the same grade, even though she was a year older than him and technically was supposed to be a junior and not a sophomore.

Stiles didn't get what the big deal was; he thought it'd be pretty awesome to have his sister in most of his classes.

Allison had said something about pregnancy and stupidity and people judging but by that point in the exchange of texts, Stiles had been a little dazed by the lack of sleep he was getting, so it hadn't all sunk in.

The car jerks forward and Stiles hits his head on the back of the passenger seat with a curse.

"Oh, good. You're awake," Chris says with a mischievous gleam in his vividly sharp blue eyes and an almost cruel smile on his lips.

Stiles glares at his father. "Actually I think I may have a concussion," he quips as he rubs at his forehead. "Is it legal to litigate your parents?"

Allison snorts as she grabs her book bag.

Stiles grabs at his own and glancing out the window to the school grounds. " _And…_ it's empty. Which means we're late. Which means we have to do the whole step into a class that's already in session only to have everyone stare because there's an invisible sign on our forehead that says new. I'm marked now. We're marked now."

Allison frowns unhappily at that. "If we hadn't stopped for food we probably could have been on time," she points out.

"Agreed, but your brother was hungry and we all know how cranky Stiles can be when he isn't properly fed," Chris adds, curling one hand over the top of the steering wheel and surveying the area carefully like some sort of black ops soldier on assignment.

Stiles is used to his father doing that, considering his line of work. "Stiles is a growing boy that needs to be fed many, many times and why am I referring to myself in the third person?" he huffs and shakes his head. "Look this isn't going to be a regular thing is it? I mean, no offense, I love you to death dad." Stiles claps his hand over Chris's shoulder. "But I was so over being dropped off at school back in junior high—and before I actually obtained a care—car," he corrects. "And a license to drive."

Chris pats his hand back. "I'm aware of that Stiles, but you know as well as I do that you have no idea how to get around and I didn't want either of you to get lost or heaven forbid, hurt. Besides, as your dad, I'm allowed this one courtesy of seeing his kids to school on their first day," he replies, eyeing them both through his rear view mirror.

Allison doesn't say anything. She just looks away and fists the door handle. "Can we go now?" she mutters.

Stiles looks at his dad with shrug and sits back.

"Yes. Have a good day. Try and stay out of trouble, and for God sakes Stiles, please," Chris says, giving Stiles a pointed look.

Stiles frowns innocently, only, he can't actually manage it. "What?"

"You know what. Did you take your medicine?"

"Dad, I am appalled that you would even have to ask or even put in the effort to give me a verbal warning about my behavior—"

"Stiles…"

"Right, right. Getting out now. Behaving."

Chris sighs as Stiles and Allison climb out of the car simultaneously. He rolls down the window on the passenger side to say, "Allison, keep an eye on your brother!"

Allison lifts a hand in acknowledgement without turning around, frown still prominent on her face.

Stiles lifts his hands and gapes at his father. "Seriously? Shouldn't it be the other way around? Dad, come on. I'm growing a complex here."

Chris just winks. "I'll be here to pick you both up when it's all over," and then he drives off with another word.

Stiles sighs and shakes his head. He quickly jogs over to Allison as he shoulders his book bag. "Well," he says, bumping his shoulder into hers. "You can stop looking so grumpy now, dad's not around so there's really no need to flaunt your vibrantly unhappy aura around," he jokes.

Allison huffs but smiles and Stiles counts that as a win.

"Ah, there we go. See. That contortion of upper angles on your face? Yeah, that phenomenon is called happiness. Live it. Experience it. Cherish it," he says, clapping a hand over her shoulder.

Allison smiles even more with a snort and bumps her shoulder into his. "How is it that you can always make things better?"

Stiles feels his mouth shrug along with his shoulders. "I'd like to think of it as a gift," he explains with a cocky grin. Because really, if making people feel good was a superpower, Stiles would be a first rate superhero.

Allison sighs and looks around before her gaze lands on the front entrance of school, which they have yet to even pass through. "Why don't we—skip."

Stiles lifts an eyebrow. "You? Want to skip? The first day of school? You?" He eyes his sister. Then grabs her shoulders turning her to and fro as he surveys her. "Where's Allison and what kind of rebellious demon is inhabiting her physical body?"

Allison flushes and punches him in the shoulder, cause his to stumble back slightly. "You idiot. Shut up. I can be—I can be—you know. Wild."

Stiles snorts and slaps a hand over his heart. "Oh man, just when I thought you weren't capable of joking." Because she was joking. She really was. Allison, his goody-goody sister, who always used to cry when she forgot to brush her teeth when they were little or got a B on a her final exams or doesn't understand the existence of Comic Con, could not even be considering skipping the first day of school.

"Stiles I'm not joking," Allison hisses, pushing at him again.

"Hey, cool it with the violence," Stiles says with a frown, rubbing at his chest with a wince. "And okay, let's say, hypothetically, I believe your actually being serious. Where would we go? We have no idea what's around here. Or better question—mom and dad will kill us. Actually that's not a question—that happens to be a terrifying fact that will occur if we do this."

Allison raises an eyebrow. "What's the matter Stiles? Are you really afraid mommy and daddy will find out their perfectly behaved little children have shirked school for other stuff."

Stiles blinks. "Okay you can not say shirk and be talking about attempting rebellious activities in the same breath. It's—wrong," he shudders for effect.

"How are you even related to me?" Allison asks as she stares at him.

"Call it blessing," Stiles returns easily with a goofy smile.

"Come on, Stiles. Let's be serious for a moment. I know you've skipped and done all manners of distasteful activities that neither of our parents would approve," Allison points out. "What's one more thing? We can bond over it."

Stiles shrugs because it's true. "Yeah, but I'm not trying to be a bad influence on you. You know if we got caught, which always happens, mainly for me because again, I'm the one doing bad things—I would be accountable."

Allison snorts. "Please, Stiles. You're the baby of the family and you're the favorite. I doubt they would blame you for anything."

Stiles gapes. "I'm not a favorite baby. I'm appalled that you would even—"

"You must be Allison and Stiles," a voice says to their immediate right.

Allison and Stiles turn to see an older man with thinning gray hair and a rounded middle that made his blue button down shirt cling to him in uncomfortable ways, approach them.

Well there went the plan of skipping, which Stiles wasn't even going to go along with to begin with. Stiles is still on probation from the last stunt he pulled (which may or may not have been getting caught making out with one of his friend's dad by said friend and him having to beg his father not to kill said friend's dad because it had been totally mutual even though the guy was like forty and technically committing statutory rape but even if you'd seen the guy you would be on Stiles's side and yeah—it hadn't been a good day), favoritism be damned.

"I'm Mr. Kindle," he says, holding out a hand, giving them both an opportunity to shake it.

"Allison Argent," Allison says.

"Stiles," he merely says, shaking Mr. Kindle's hand next. "Hey, so you must get this question all the time but—any relation to the whole Kindle electronics phenomena?"

Mr. Kindle chuckles. "No, unfortunately." He turns. "I've got your schedules here, and a map of the school you can use to maneuver your way around. Though I'm sure two good looking kids like yourselves will make friends fast so you might not even need it." Mr. Kindle pulls out said items from his messenger bag that Stiles is now noticing for the first time.

"Thanks," Allison and Stiles say simultaneously.

"Jinx," Stiles mutters as he pretends to look over his schedule.

Allison snorts, and does the same. "I'm not buying you a soda," she mutters back.

"I'll settle for a pop tart and that bag of reese's bites we both know you keep inside that purple lizard/bear thing on your bed."

"Ten percent," Allison offers.

"Twenty."

"Fifteen."

"Okay. Make it sixty percent."

"Thirty five, Stiles."

"Fine."

"I'll show you to your first class," Mr. Kindle offers after a while and spins on his heel, leading the way.

Allison elbows Stiles in his stomach.

"Ow!" Stiles says and glares. "What was that for?"

"You know why. We could've been gone," Allison hisses back. "And I change my mind. You get ten percent."

"Oh come on, don't be like that. Just take it as a sign from above that we weren't supposed to skip," he whispers.

Allison just shakes her head with a disappointed frown as they follow Mr. Kindle around a corner and to a door. He knocks before opening the door. "Mr. Sinclair, I have two more to add."

Mr. Sinclair, who looks like he could be Mr. Kindle's older brother, with glasses, pauses midsentence and assesses Stiles and Allison.

As does every pair of eyes in the room.

"Ah, yes. Come in. Thanks Tom, I'll take it from here," Mr. Sinclair says and waving Allison and Stiles forward.

Mr. Kindle nods and shuts the door behind him without another word.

Mr. Sinclair hands them each a syllabus. "Now as I was saying before, we will be studying Kafka's Metamorphosis, and everything that follows is outlined in this syllabus which we are going through. So Allison, please take the seat behind Matt. Matt please raise your hand so that Ms. Argent will know who you are."

Matt is brown-haired, blue-eyed fellow with a warm smile and a nice face. A little more than nice, Stiles decides as he eyes Matt. When he glances at Allison and notices her expression, he can tell she agrees. And as she sits down behind him, they briefly smile at each other before Matt turns forward again and Allison gives Stiles this look and flashes eight fingers at him to confirm it. She rates this Matt fellow as an eight—not bad.

Stiles is just a little jealous, so he would have given Matt an eight and a half.

"And Stiles you can sit behind Scott. Mr. McCall, raise your hand so that—" Mr. Sinclair barely finishes his sentence before Scott hand flies into the air enthusiastically.

Everyone snickers at the obviousness, but Stiles could care less because Scott was more than easy on the eyes. Hell, he was a prominent ten. He had this puppyish, shy grin on his face as his hand stayed suspended in the air and these soulful brown eyes that just looked at Stiles like he had found the answer to all the questions he'd been asking.

And Stiles—

…is more than okay with being the answer.

Stiles walks over and plops behind Scott, pulling off his book bag and dropping it to his feet as glances at Allison.

Allison eyes are widened with this look as she smiles and nods her head to Scott with an approving two thumbs up.

Stiles does not blush at his sister's blatant approval because that would be stupid.

"—actually cross out the last line where it says final projects are due on the fifteenth. That's actually a holiday weekend and put the twenty-forth instead," Mr. Kindle says.

Everyone flips the page and using their pens and pencils to do as instructed.

Stiles is—not. Cannot actually. Because for some idiotic reason that may or may not have to do with the fact that his sleep-deprived brain hadn't really thought about it, he has forgotten to grab that pack of pens that's probably still lying on his desk besides his laptop at home.

"Here, you can use mine," Scott says, offering his pen with the sweetest shy grin Stiles has ever come into contact with.

Stiles smiles back and accepts it. "Thanks, man. Appreciate it. I'll try and remember to give it back—"

"No, no," Scott interjects hastily. "I mean it's okay. It's alright. What's one less pen? I have plenty, you have none. It's only fair."

Stiles nods and smiles again. "Yeah. But if our roles are ever reversed, I will have a bucket of pens waiting to dump over your desk so that I can settle my debt," he jokes.

Scott laughs and seriously, he needs to stop being adorable because Stiles might catch diabetes from the sweetness. "I look forward to it," he says, sounding ridiculously genuine, turning forward again.

Stiles leans forward and props his head in his hand as he traces his eyes over the back of Scott's head, thanking all supernatural entities that he did not skip school today.

888

"Photography. Isn't that just—perfect?" Allison says with this wistful expression as she sags against her locker with a far off look, waiting as Stiles exchanges his books. "I asked him if he wanted to major in it or anything but he said no. That it was just a hobby—that he liked to just capture anything that catches his eyes. Then he lifted the camera and took a picture of me. God, it was like—a movie scene or something. I wanted to eat my own heart out."

"I think these lockers are in alphabetical order," Stiles comments randomly. "Why else would your locker be beside mine?"

Allison frowns. "Does it matter?"

"You like photography too so I guess that is kind of perfect, and by the way it sounds, this Matt is really into you," Stiles says instead, closing his locker with a grin.

"Uh—what? I mean yeah—no wait. I don't know, Stiles. It's easy to assume but I just—I don't know. You really think he likes me?" Allison asks, twirling a lock of her brown curls around her finger as she gnaws on her bottom lip.

"It's not that it matters your locker is next to mine, I couldn't be more thrilled. I just wondered what kind of system their running around here, you know? Getting to know Beacon High's groove," Stiles replies instead.

"Stiles what in the—" It seems to click and Allison glares. She huffs and pushes at his shoulder. "Oh very funny. I hate when you do that to me. Can we please stick to one subject before I have to strangle you?"

"But it's my favorite game." Stiles ducks back when Allison actually grabs for his throat. "Okay, okay! Continue to describe to me every dreamy detail about Matt the Photographer," Stiles says and watches in satisfaction as Allison flushes.

"Shut up, Stiles. He's just—he's really…you know?" Allison says, hugging her books close as she runs her thumb over her bottom lip, looking down at their feet.

Stiles wraps an arm over her shoulders and pulls her close. "I know." And he does. He hadn't been over-exaggerating when he said that when Allison fell, she usually fell _hard_. He could tell Matt was the case in this situation. He might have to threaten the guy sometime soon. "You do know that we'll have to introduce him to mom and dad right?"

Allison makes a sound that Stiles isn't able to identify as human. "Can we not talk about that now? I don't even—have his number or any kind of indication he likes me back. Besides the camera thing."

"Who wouldn't like you? Seriously. Who wouldn't? Probably the same kind of people that hate teddy bears and are all like, ' _Yeah I had fun once—it was terrible'._ You know, the kind of people that, when you get on a super awesome coaster and look at their picture at the end and they just have this deadpan expression on their face as though eating baby cubs would be more exciting," Stiles rambles as Allison chuckles.

"Shut up, Stiles. And enough about Matt. What about—what was his name—Scott?" Allison says slyly. "He looked really invested in letting you borrow his pen and sit behind him."

Stiles refuses to acknowledge the dopey grin on his face or the blush. "What's there to say? The guy's a regular good Samaritan. I feel like he'd make Taylor Swift look like an asshole," he says.

"And he's very good looking," Allison adds.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Are you saying that for me sis, or for yourself? I can't tell."

"A little of both," Allison admits with an easy shrug.

"Allison and Stiles right? I'm Lydia," the mousy redhead with an incredible amount of beautiful boyfriend hanging over her says with an enticing smile and Stiles thinks, no. Just—no. She's too hot and hot boyfriend is too hot. Always a bad omen. "You two are new. How are you liking Beacon Hills so far?"

"Probably as much as every other place we've been," Allison replies vaguely and Stiles smiles a little because he can tell she's as apprehensive about them as he is.

"Hm," Lydia hums, pretending to give the answer some thought before her eyes latch on to Stiles. "And what do you think?"

"Oh I don't think. Like ever," Stiles says with mock serious expression. "Too dangerous. Like the one time I did it, I ended up with a severe concussion. So—never again."

Lydia frowns with confusion, as does her too hot to be real boyfriend—seriously, how is this guy a high school student and not a model?

Stiles has some doubts.

"He's kidding," Allison says, sparing Lydia and freaky hot boyfriend the headache. "He does that."

"Oh," Lydia says, shoulders straightening as she smiles. "I like jokes. Right Jackson?"

Jackson just frowns, and holy shit, he makes that look hot too. "Whatever," he mutters and looks the other way like Allison and Stiles aren't worth his time.

Stiles can recognize an asshole when he sees one. No matter if said asshole is probably harboring abs of doom and a perfectly angled jawline and cheekbone structure. And how is that even fair? Stiles can't dislike a person when they are so attractive. Well—he could but it doesn't make the disliking easier.

"So, I'm having a party this Friday. You guys should come. It'll give you a chance to get to know the people around here. Well—the people who matter in any case," Lydia says.

Stiles doesn't even care.

Allison, on the other hand, does. "Uh—you know what—we can't. Right Stiles?"

Stiles frowns.

Allison gives him a look.

Lydia glances back and forth. "Why not?"

"Why…not?" Allison repeats. "Because—uh, because—Stiles…is…going to tell you why. Stiles?"

Stiles loves his sister but then he hates his sister. Like a lot. Especially when she throws him under the bus and throws salt on his wounds afterwards. "Uh—right. I am going to tell you why—because I know—of the reason," he says and clears his throat. "The things is—well—the thing is that we have to be home for—family time. Our family enjoys the time we share together. We come from a lineage of time sharing people so, in a way—it's become like this heritage. Sacred. Real culture type stuff. So unfortunately we'll have to miss this party and because you look like the type to have other parties, frequently—we'll just pass this specific one and go to another. And that is why we can't even. We are completely unable to even. We have lost the ability to even. We simply—"

"Okay, Stiles, I think they get it," Allison interjects, grabbing at Stiles's animated hands.

Lydia and Jackson are just staring.

Stiles is used to this.

"You're very strange," Lydia notes. "But for some reason, it's suites you. And I like it," she admits.

Stiles feels both of his eyebrows raise because that was a new one. "Uh—awesome. I'll be sure to let my freak flag fly more often."

Lydia just nods. "Well, we're headed to Jackson's lacrosse practice if you wanted to join us. And no that wasn't a question, this is actually happening, so let's go."

"Wait—lacrosse? You guys seriously have lacrosse?" Stiles asks, unable to believe what he just heard. "Please tell me you're not joking because I'm already developing some feelings about this."

"Best goddamn lacrosse team this side of California," Jackson confirms. Suddenly he's looking at Stiles like maybe Stiles is worth a smidge of consideration. "Why? You play?"

"Play? He's obsessed. Notice how he's unable to verbally respond? Yeah. I think he just died," Allison says.

Stiles snaps out of his euphoria long enough to swing his fist enthusiastically causing the three of them to step back and out of range from his flailing. "Yes! Mother fu—yes! Oh man, this is perfect!" he shouts happily, causing all manners of attention from the students still roaming the halls. Stiles grabs the front of Jackson's jacket and pulls him in. "Dude, please tell me you guys are still screening people for the team."

Jackson slaps his hands off and Stiles rubs at his aching skin with a wince. "You could say that. I guess I could give Coach a heads up, and see if anyone has some extra uniform you can borrow. Do you have—"

Stiles holds up his lacrosse stick out of relatively thin air before Jackson can finish. "Way ahead of you."

Allison balks. "For the love of God, Stiles! How did you even—"

"Uh, Allison? Not important," Stiles interjects, waving his sister off before turning his attention to Jackson again. "So we can go now right? I actually don't understand why we are not going. Our legs should be moving—why are we not moving?"

Jackson smirks as he turns, Lydia in tow, leading the way and Stiles is too psyched to notice the malevolent intent in his expression.

Allison does, however, and it makes her a little wary.

888

Stiles steps out on the lacrosse field and falls in love with Beacon Hills as he shrugs under his borrowed uniform, which had been loaned to him by a charming guy named Danny.

"Argent!"

"Yeah," Stiles whips around in every direction and stumbles to his knees in the process.

Smooth. Real smooth.

Coach—Stiles can only assume is—grimaces and waves him over. "Jackson here says your interested in joining our ranks."

Stiles stumbles to his feet and approaches Jackson and Coach. "Yeah, sure. Interested is actually underestimating my burning desire but it's fine. Even though I would have said something like, ' _Stiles yearns to play the godsend that is lacrosse'_ or something like that."

Coach crosses his arms and stares at Stiles. "Boy you're a real nutcake aren't you?"

Stiles blinks. "I don't understand what that has to do with my incomparable love of lacrosse."

Coach belts out a laugh and claps Stiles on the shoulder. "He's funny," he says to Jackson as he assesses Stiles. "You're funny. I like you, kid. And I don't usually like people. What's your name?"

"Stiles is fine," he replies with a shrug.

"Well ' _Stiles is fine'_ —I'm Bobby Finstock. Friend's call me Bobby but you're not my friend are you, son?"

"Uh—no?"

"Right you are. So, seeing as how we're not, as of yet, on friendly terms, you'll be referring to me as Coach. And then we are friendly terms, you can call me Coach. You any good?"

"I'd like to think so, Coach," Stiles replies, and doesn't bother mentioning that he's been practicing and playing since he discovered what lacrosse was.

"Well unfortunately, what you think doesn't matter because out on that field, Stiles, despite the power of the mind—if you're no good, you're no good. I really don't have time for no good, because I can't have any one of you jeopardizing our chance at championship, capeesh?" Coach shoves him towards the field without waiting for his response. "Now get out there and show me what you got, Argent. McCall! You play goalie. Everyone else, line up to take the shot."

Stiles adjusts his gloves and stands behind Jackson, glancing towards the bleachers, finding Allison and Lydia at the very top.

Allison smiles widely and gives him the thumbs up, mouthing, "Good luck." She nods her head towards the sides of the bleachers where their father was standing, watching as well.

Chris nods in greeting.

Stiles waves at his dad before he puts on his helmet. He figures his dad must have got tired of waiting around for them and came to see what they were up to. The only reason why he doesn't seem to be trying to drag Allison and Stiles away is because he's aware of Stiles's longstanding love of lacrosse.

Chris can be awesomely supportive at times—when he wasn't in scary overprotective father mode that is.

Stiles glances towards Coach Finstock, arguing with, who Stiles can only guess, is Scott. Scott looks as though he apparently lost the argument because he doesn't protest when Coach shoves the goalie stick at his chest.

Scott ambles over to the goalie post and stands, legs apart, bowed slightly and gloved hand fisting the goalie stick unsurely.

Stiles feels a little bad for him because he's obvious he's completely out of his element.

Coach blows the whistle and the line moves up when the first person runs, sweeps up the ball and hurls it at Scott.

Scott flinches and falls on his back.

Stiles winces for him.

Coach looks livid. "McCall!" he barks. "Now I don't know if you're aware of this, but the job of the goalie is to stop the ball from touching the net of the goal. You know, the device in your hands, which I have yet to see you _use_? Its specifically designed to aid you in this endeavor. Now get up!"

"Yes, Coach. Sorry, Coach," Scott grunts, standing to his feet. He corrects his stance.

Coach blows the whistle and the line moves up with the next person, which happens to be Jackson.

Jackson is actually a beast on the field. It's a bit terrifying. He scoops up the ball, runs and whips it at Scott with an intensity that borders on intentionally violent.

Scott goes flying back again and the ball makes a goal once more.

"God damn it, McCall!" Coach barks, throwing down his clipboard.

Jackson pulls off his helmet and high fives one of the other teammates with a smirk.

"Hey, Jackson, man—don't you think you should lay off?" Stiles says.

Jackson smirks. "No, I don't." He steps in close, right in Stile's personal space, looking down as if Stiles is nothing but the dirt beneath his feet. "Why? Do you have a problem with the way I do things? Coach doesn't, no one else does. So I'd keep the comments to yourself if I were you." He claps Stiles on the shoulder. "Think of it this way—with McCall as the goalie, he'll actually make you look as good as you think you are." Jackson grins and winks, heading to the end of the line.

Stiles—will have to murder Jackson's face. His stupidly, perfectly angled face.

Coach, who has been exchanging words with Scott, jogs off the field, and steps onto the sidelines again.

Stiles takes a steady breath and looks across the field at Scott, who suddenly looks uneasy again. Stiles has no time to even contemplate it because Coach blows his whistle and Stiles is drowning in the sound of his own breathing and his heartbeat. He scoops the ball up and runs, throwing the ball and going for the upper left corner.

Scott catches it.

It's a close call but…

…Scott _actually_ catches it.

Stiles gapes, as does everyone else he's sure, but because Stiles has never been particularly good at thinking his actions through, he throws himself at Scott. "Dude! You caught it!"

Scott blinks, looking at the end of his stick where there is indeed the ball that Stiles had tossed. "I—did?" He blinks and then he sports that puppy grin that does funny things to Stiles's sucker-ish heart. "I did!" And he hugs Stiles back.

"Oh for the love of—" Coach is prying them apart. "Not that this little display isn't touching, but Stiles, he caught the ball. Bad for you, good for him. I wouldn't be embracing him so warmly cause at the moment, he has a better of chance at being on the team than you do currently. End of the line." He shoves Stiles away.

Stiles gives Scott a thumbs up as he is continually shoved away but Scott is frowning and he looks guilty. Stiles can't really come up with any reason as to why Scott would look guilty, unless he felt bad about making Stiles look bad. Stiles honestly didn't care. He liked a challenge, and if Scott was just that good, then Stiles would work harder for it.

Allison mouths, "You alright?" when he glances over at her and he nods with a shrug that says, ' _What can you do? It happens'_. She smiles encouragingly and turns her attention back to the front of the line.

Stiles looks at his dad to see what he made of it, but he's leaning against the side of the bleachers with his arms crossed, staring intently at Scott for some reason.

Stiles suspects it has to do with the fact that Scott has caught every ball thrown his way. Scott is definitely on fire and the crowd that's watching is cheering him on. The amusing thing about it is that Jackson is just seething with blatant jealousy.

Scott catches Jackson's throws just as easily as the rest of them and Jackson just hates that.

Stiles has his doubts about the situation, because for some reason, when Stiles is up to make a throw, he makes a goal. It's definitely great and his sister definitely roars his praise a little too loudly as his father straightens with pride and impressed expression. Not to mention that Coach Finstock is just loving it. Even the rest of team (besides Jackson of course, the big brat) pats him on the back, all grudgingly impressed. And the things is, Stiles wants to believe he really is that good, he really does—but something isn't right.

Just how is it that Stiles, out of every single player on the team, can manage a successful follow-through when no one else can?

Coach blows the whistle, cutting Stiles's thought short as he waves them all in. Everyone jogs over. "That's was great. I love what I was seeing out there." He glances around before he adds, "I mean McCall and Argent of course. They were the only ones showing me anything worth seeing. The rest of you just sucked. And I may be jumping the gun here, but Christ, I can not even muster up the ability to care whether I break any of your little hearts and cause you to sob, princess style—but I've decided to make McCall and Argent co-captains of the team."

Dead silence.

Coach looks around. "Well clap, congratulate them—do _something_. Jesus. You know what, I'm done," and he walks away.

Stiles has died. He has died and now God is feeding him delusions of grandeur because there is no way—

"Hey, congratulations, man. You were good. Real good," Danny says, clapping Stiles over the shoulder with a smile.

Stiles yanks off his helmet. "Thanks," he pants. "Must have been your gear, dude. You're uniform has the magic touch or something," he jokes.

Danny smiles widely. "Well, feel free to wear it anytime. It looks good on you."

Stiles eyebrows fly up as he watches Danny walk away. " _And…_ he totally just came on to me," he mutters. He stumbles forward by the array of handclaps to his back and bro-type hugs he's assaulted with by the rest of the team in congratulations.

Allison nearly bowls him over when she hops on his back. "Oh my god, Stiles! What's this I hear about you being co-captain?" she squeals and tightens both her arms and legs around him.

Stiles laughs, and hauls her up a little higher on his back. "Yeah—I'm trying to process it myself."

"Lydia wasn't too happy with Jackson, which, I think he deserved it," Allison admits in a low whisper as she drops her feet down to the ground and pulls away.

Stiles turns and faces her. "Oh yeah? What I wouldn't give hearing Lydia beat down his already shredded ego," he snorts.

"Hm—well go get changed so we can go home. I'm hungry. Dad says mom made lasagna. You're grossly sweaty," she says, poking at his chest with a disgusted face.

"What? Are you kidding me? I'm outrageously attractive right. Here, let me kiss you." Stiles puckers his lips and goes for her cheek.

Allison hops back with a laugh. "Ew, no! Just go. Change. You can shower at home—I'm really hungry. Don't make me wait."

"Yes, Master Allison!" Stiles snaps a salute. "Tell dad I'll be out in ten."

"Seven!"

Stiles waves her off as he jogs towards the school and to the locker room.

Coach is standing in the doorway of his office, looking down at his clipboard and shooting off names of people who made the team.

Stiles slips past them to find the locker he'd conquered as his own and stripped himself of Danny's gear. He quickly changes into his clothes, not wanting to make Allison wait. He certainly wouldn't put it past her to try and swindle their dad into driving off without Stiles. He picks up Danny's gear and sets it down with the rest of Danny's things. Danny's not in sight so Stiles figures he must be in the showers.

Stiles hikes his book bag up further on his shoulder and turns to exit, but he spots Scott, along with Jackson and some other guy Stiles doesn't recognize. He has a feeling Jackson is giving Scott a hard time.

"—how you did it McCall, but I'm on to you. Whatever little— _performance pills_ you're popping to help you do whatever it is the hell you did out on that field—I will find out," Jackson threatens, leaning into Scott's personal space to intimidate him. "And when I do…" he trails off, punching the locker besides Scott's head making Scott and his friend flinch. Jackson glares at them and storms off, bumping roughly into Stiles as he passes him.

"You know if its any consolation, Jackson, I thought you tried your very hardest out there," Stiles calls after him. "I'd give you a B- for effort."

Jackson gives him the finger as he disappears into the showers.

Stiles shrugs and turns back to Scott, who's watching him intently with considerable amount of curiosity. Stiles smiles and waves awkwardly as he steps forward. "Didn't mean to eavesdrop. I just—wanted to congratulate about being my co-captain. Crazy right?"

Scott smiles softly. "Yeah. Crazy."

Stiles grins and glances at the guy that's looming over Scott's shoulder. "Uh—I'm Stiles."

"Yeah, I know who you are," the guy retorts rudely.

"Isaac, come on," Scott hisses and sends his friend a look over his shoulder.

Isaac makes a face and rolls his eyes. "Isaac Lahey—Scott's longsuffering best friend," and he tosses a towel over his shoulder, walking away.

Scott frowns as he watches his friend disappear. "Don't mind, Isaac—he isn't always so—"

"Overprotective?" Stiles offers with a small smile.

Scott snorts and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I was going to say rude, but yeah, I guess that's what that was wasn't it?"

Stiles shrugs. "No harm done. I'd be the same way." He pauses as Scott looks at him with a raised eyebrow. Stiles flushes as he goes back over his words. "Uh—not that I mean with you—that'd I'd be overprotective of you because—that's just strangely insinuating. I just meant that, that's how I'm with the people I care about. Not that I don't care about you—I mean—I—seriously need someone to come and just kill me right now." He sighs and rubs his hands over his face.

Scott chuckles, and when Stiles peeks at him through his fingers, he notices that Scott is staring at him like he's watching something incredibly adorable and entertaining—and geez that makes him blush a little more. But Stiles cares a little less about his own embarrassment when Scott beams this sunshiny smile at him.

Stiles thinks it's contiguous because he can't stop the grin that curls his lips. It's ruined, however, by how his phone vibrates in his pocket. Stiles jerks as he fishes for it and tosses Scott an apologetic smile as he looks at the screen.

A picture of Allison in her green-colored facial mask, tongue out and eyes crossed in the most goofiest expression she could muster when he'd caught her, glares at him tauntingly.

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes, sliding his thumb over the ignore button. "Sorry, it's my sister. My dad and her are waiting so I better get going."

Scott looks disappointed.

Stiles isn't fully equipped to handle that face. "Give me your number," he says abruptly, shoving his phone at Scott and not at all as graceful as he would have liked. But he wants to make that face go away.

Scott blinks in surprise. "What?"

Stiles snorts. "Your number? You know? The system of about ten digits that will connect me to your specific telephonic device and allow me to communicate with you through airwaves and digital messaging as frequently as we choose."

"Oh," Scott flushes and quickly grabs Stiles's phone, almost dropping it a few times in his haste, but Stiles pretends not to notice. Scott hands it back when he finishes it.

Stiles presses save and shoves the phone in his pocket. "See you," he says with a wave.

"Definitely," Scott promises with a smile.

Stiles grins back and turns, pausing once to turn back and say, "And by the way. I'm totally on to you. Next time you should let someone else get a goal too. It would look a little less suspicious."

Scott's eyes widen and he ducks his head.

Stiles laughs and shakes his head, making his way to the exits, into the halls, out the doors and towards the parking lot.

"Took you long enough," Allison mutters from the passenger seat when he climbs in behind her.

"Oh boohoo," Stiles mutters, buckling himself in.

"Damn right, boohoo, I almost ate dad."

Chris shifts gears. "Allison, watch your language." He glances back at Stiles through the rear view mirror. "So. Co-captain huh? Lotta responsibility."

"I can handle it," Stiles assures.

Chris cocks his head away and says, "Never said you couldn't. You've got leader in you, Stiles. Just not so sure about your other teammate. Wouldn't want you to have to shoulder the weight if he doesn't pull through."

Stiles frown. "I'll keep that in mind, dad."

Chris nods in satisfaction and doesn't say anything else.

Stiles feels his pocket vibrate and he squirms in his seat as he tries to pull it out.

_Was I that obvious? :) -Scott_

Stiles snorts and types out a reply.

_Completely. At least to me. But then again I have great deductive skills. I might have been Sherlock Holmes in the past. ;) –Stiles_

Not even fifteen seconds after he sends it, he get a reply.

_Possible. So you aren't really hanging out with your family this Friday are you? –Scott_

_Pfft. No. I just made up that excuse for my sister so we could give Jackson and Lydia the slip and oh my god how do you even know about this? –Stiles_

_Oh. That's good. Not good like I'm glad you're not hanging out with your family good, but just good that I'm glad you're free this Friday. Want to go to the party with me? :) –Scott_

Stiles snorts and types out a reply.

_Dude, you're not very good at changing subjects and avoiding questions, but sure. You'll have to drive because I'm sure I'd get lost. –Stiles_

_Yeah, totally. Awesome. I'll pick you up at eight? –Scott_

_It's a date. –Stiles_


	2. Chapter 2

_While all deception requires secrecy, all secrecy is not meant to deceive._

**-Sissela Bok**

888

Isaac can be patient.

"Lycan—what?"

In fact, Isaac is the epitome of patience. "Lycanthropy."

Scott just blinks slowly like he doesn't understand. He probably doesn't. "Okay." He shifts and glances down at his wristwatch. "Is this going to take long? I'm supposed to be picking up Stiles in two hours, so…"

Isaac can be patient but Scott does things like this that makes Isaac forget just how patient he can be. He inhales carefully and says, "Remember that conversation we had out in the woods. You know, when you, me and Erica were stumbling around a couple of days ago looking for the other half of a dead body Erica had supposedly found?"

Scott nods as he sits down on the edge of Isaac's bed.

"And then Erica started freaking out and having a panic attack and I had to take her home before she started seizing up but you said that you wanted to stay behind because you thought your inhaler had fallen out of your pocket somewhere during our hike?"

Scott nods again.

"Then you came stumbling home later at like two in the morning, climbing up to my window because you had a fucking _bite mark_ on the side of your stomach that you didn't want Aunt Melissa to see because she would freak out like I did when I decided to be responsible and clean it and patch you up. And then I asked you what did it and you said a wolf."

Scott sighs and nods again, looking distractedly down at his watch again.

Isaac pushes away from his desk and stands, grabbing Scott by the elbow and hauling him up, yanking his cotton shirt up and ripping off the gauze.

Scott protests, "Hey!"

"Look!" Isaac snaps and viciously pokes Scott in his side, his skin looking untouched and blemish free. "Explain that to me, Scott. Explain it," he hisses and shoves Scott back.

Scott falls back on Isaac's bed in shock as he looks down at stomach. "I—I don't—"

"I looked up the statistics of wolves in Beacon Hills. I found nothing. That's because there hasn't been a wolf sighted in the entire state of California for over _sixty years_ , Scott."

"So what?" Scott mumbles and pushes his shirt back down again, avoiding Isaac's eyes. "Maybe I just—am getting better at healing myself. So what?"

"So what? So _what?_ " Isaac lunges at Scott and hauls him up again by the front of his shirt, slamming Scott into his bookshelf, shaking the whole thing and making books fly over the edge and thump onto the floor. "Wake up, Scott! I haven't seen you use your inhaler once in the past three days. You've gotten obnoxiously good at lacrosse. You see better. You hear better. You smell better. You've been fucking sleepwalking into the forest at night—and yes I know about that—you're louder than an elephant walking across a floor made of bubble wrap when you try and sneak back into your room. You're lucky your mom sleeps like the dead. What do you think this all means?"

"I don't know!" Scott snaps, fidgeting against the bookshelf, looking confused and worried and upset. "I—I don't know…"

"Yes you do," Isaac hisses. "Ly-can-thro-py." Then he shoves away from Scott, taking three steps back. "Scott. You're a werewolf."

Scott just stares down at the books scattered across the floor at his feet.

"Coming across Derek Hale when we went back to look for the body you said you'd found yesterday morning wasn't just a coincidence. Somehow I feel like he's connected to all this. I don't know how, but I got this gut feeling. I mean—this guy's been gone for what—four years? More? And then there's a murder around the same time he's back?" Isaac runs his hands through his hair.

Scott says nothing. He hasn't moved at all.

"We need to talk to him. Right away—like yesterday," Isaac decides.

Scott whips his head up. "It can't be tonight."

Isaac snarls. "You idiot, it has to be. It's a full moon tonight!"

Scott shakes his head. "I can't. Stiles—"

"Will you just think for a second?" Isaac snaps. "Full moon doesn't just signify the change! You're cursed now, Scott—and so everything you do tonight wont matter if you cant fight the urge to follow instinct. I've researched this stuff. Your bloodlust will be at its peak tonight."

"Bloodlu—"

"Your urge to kill."

Scott stares at Isaac with a horrified frown, curling his hands into fists. "Why are you doing this?" he mutters. "Everything's finally perfect and you do… _this_!"

Isaac fists his hair and wonders why he was cursed with such a stubborn best friend. "God. Can you just think with your brain and not with your dick for like a _second_. You know I'm right. Listen, I read that your urge to change is defined by your pulse—your heartbeat. What get's your heart beating besides lacrosse? Stiles!" he points out. "And just what is he going to do when you start wolfing out in the middle of your fucking date and you try to slice his pretty face to ribbons?"

"Isaac…"

"Cancel. You have to," Isaac decides.

"Isaac…" Scott's voice deepens as his head lowers, shoulders shaking.

"Look you either cancel with him or I'll do it for you. We're going to see Derek tonight."

" _No!"_ Scott howls, making the glass of Isaac's window shake and Isaac drops to his knees, covering his ears with a wince. Then suddenly, Scott just stops.

Isaac pants, looking up at his friend, paling at the sight of elongated canines and gold eyes. Isaac stands to his feet, keeping a wary eye on him. "Scott…" He reaches out with a hand.

"Don't!" Scott snarls in warning before turning away. "Just—give me a minute," he rumbles, shoulders still shaking and hands clenching and unclenching.

Isaac can hear footsteps and then a tentative knock. "You boys alright? I thought I heard something as I was pulling into the driveway."

"We're fine, mom," Scott assures, sounding completely normal again.

Sheriff McCall invites herself into Isaac's room and eyes both of them. "You sure? You two aren't rough housing again are you?" she asks with a playful smile.

"Not today," Isaac shrugs, walking over to his bed and flopping backwards. "Scott's got a date tonight though. I'm trying to talk him out of it."

Scott glares down at Isaac.

Isaac smirks and folds his hands behind his head. "We made a chastity pack, bro. Or don't you remember?"

Scott just looks like he wants to kick Isaac in the head. Nothing new there though.

Sheriff McCall zeros in on Scott immediately. "Date? What's the girl's name? Why haven't you said anything before?"

"Stiles," Isaac replies.

Sheriff McCall frowns. "What?"

"Stiles is the name," Isaac clarifies.

"Stiles…" Sheriff McCall looks skeptical. "Well—that's certainly an interesting name for a girl."

Scott, who is flushing head to toe, looking as uncomfortable with the conversation as possible, says, "Mom—she is actually a he."

"Oh?" Sheriff McCall says. Then, "Oh! Oh my. Oh gosh. When did—"

"Can we not, do this now. I have to get ready," Scott says quickly as he shuffles out of the room and walks across the hall into his own. "I'm borrowing the car, Isaac!" he calls out as he slinks into his bathroom and slams the door.

Sheriff McCall glances at Isaac. "Stiles?"

Isaac nods.

Sheriff McCall cocks her head. "Huh." She loosens the tie of her police uniform. "What's he like?"

Isaac shrugs. "Nothing besides the fact that Scott is completely stupid over the guy." Actually, that was probably underestimating what Scott was, but Isaac has always kind of been a man of few words when it wasn't important, so he didn't really try to elaborate on the situation.

"Is he attractive?"

"Sure. Why not?" Isaac shrugs again.

Sheriff McCall huffs. "Well I'm only curious, Isaac. I could ask Scott but his opinion would be bias so—you're the next best thing."

Isaac just shakes his head.

"You two have been thick as thieves since kindergarten. Scott thinks of you like family, just as much as I do. Your opinion to me matters. So tell me honestly, what do you think of this Stiles?" Sheriff McCall asks.

Isaac really doesn't have an opinion—yet. He doesn't really know the guy outside of lacrosse practice and Scott's excessive babbling.

Sheriff McCall must pick up on that from his facial expression and his silence. "Okay, you know what? I'll come back to you about that."

Isaac grins. "I'll give you an ETA once I know."

Sheriff McCall snorts. "Yeah. Okay. You know your using that acronym incorrectly right?"

Isaac shrugs.

She sighs. "So—looks like it's me and you tonight, Kiddo. How about some pizza and a Jersey Shore marathon?"

Isaac makes a face. "As enticing as that sounds, Aunt Melissa, I'll have to pass. Since I can't talk Scott out of not going, I'm going to crash his date."

Sheriff McCall frowns again. "Oh. Well." She sighs and then frowns again. "Why are you crashing his date? What exactly is wrong with Stiles? Should Scott not be left alone with him?"

"Honestly?" Isaac sits up and fishes for his phone in his pocket, fully intent on inviting Erica along for this night of fun. "I'm more worried about the opposite."

888

"Where are you two headed off to?"

Stiles and Allison pause at the front door.

Stiles says, "Shh. If we don't move—maybe she'll get bored and go away. Don't panic. She senses fear."

Allison snorts, putting a hand over her mouth and turning away, trying to silence her laughter.

Victoria does not look amused. "I'll ask again. Where, are, you, two—headed?"

Allison shoves at Stiles and Stiles shoves back.

"Oh for heaven sakes!" Victoria snaps impatiently. "Somebody talk. Now."

Allison rubs at her ear before clearing her throat. "Well—I was just going to stand outside with Stiles while he waited—while he and I waited. We like to wait."

Stiles snickers, which makes Allison choking on a laugh, and they start shoving each other again.

Victoria smiles indulgently as she laces her fingers together as if she's dealing with a pair of rambunctious toddlers. "Wait for what?" she asks evenly.

Allison opens her mouth and glances around as if she searching for the answer but ultimately ends up just looking at Stiles.

Stiles glares at her. "Seriously? I'm getting tired of you throwing me under hypothetical vehicles."

"Stiles, sweetheart," Victoria says pleasantly. "Waiting for what?"

"Uh—" Stiles laughs uneasily. "Mom—you remember when I had said before that I was gong on a—ride with another individual to a—place of like a gathering of more individuals."

"Of like a gathering," Victoria echoes blankly.

Stiles winces. "Yes. There is a place, and—I want to go to there."

Victoria stares at him. "You mean a party."

"Pfft," Stiles shakes his head and put his hands on his hips. "What? What are you talking about? I—party? What even means this word 'party'?" He looks at Allison and shakes his head. "Do you understand what that means?"

"This _place_ of other individuals—is a party," Victory states, leaving no room for argument.

"Oh is that the other word for it? It just seems—so…yeah—that would be the right word actually." Stiles clears his throat and smiles with all teeth.

"And this—individual," Victoria says as she crosses her arms. "Is he your date?"

Stiles blinks. "Well he's definitely not a turtle."

Victoria expression goes blank.

Shit. Time to backtrack. "Define date because that could be—interpreted many, many, many— _many_ different ways."

Victoria takes a steady breath. "Why must I always be forced to pry answers from you, Genim?"

Stiles winces, because his mom using his birth name is the ultimate red flag that she's reaching the end of her happy rope.

"So to recap—you are going out on a date, to a party, which will most likely contain alcoholic drinks, with a young man that your father and I have yet to meet or approve of and you were going to do so without telling either of us," Victoria reasons. "Am I correct?"

Stiles makes a strained face. "Well—you aren't wrong."

Victoria looks like she's about to pop a blood vessel.

Chris graces them all with his presence and carefully wraps his arm around her shoulders. "Let him be, Vicky. I'm sure we can trust Stiles to act responsibly tonight. After all, we raised him to be a sharp young man. He's got the Argent instinct. And I'm also sure that while he's on said date with Mr. McCall—he will inform the young man that you and I expect him for Sunday dinner so that we can have a more formal sit down. Right, son?"

Stiles grins. "Yeah—absolutely. I will do that. I will tell him and—that will happen."

Victoria grudgingly concedes and doesn't dispute it, which has to be a blessing in disguise. "You will be back here before one am. No exceptions," she says and clicks away in her high heels.

Stiles nods as she passes him and disappears into the living room. He then turns his gaze to his father. "Dad—I don't know what I've done to please you, but thank you. You're awesome and I love you. Argent men, assemble."

Chris smiles and winks before he turns on his heel towards the garage. "It's a full moon tonight, Stiles. You be careful. All manner of monsters come lurking from their slums to prey on the innocent."

Allison and Stiles share a look. Like they haven't heard that a million times before.

The garage door closes with a click.

Allison grabs Stiles's hand, tugging open the front door and yanking him out onto the porch. She closes the door behind them and faces him.

Stiles can feel the cold, and he has on several layers of clothes. Allison is only in her pajamas, so he knows she must be cold. But he also knows that she wouldn't listen to him if he told her that she didn't have wait with him.

"Okay, so—you have to tell me everything when you come back, alright? I don't care how late it is or if I'm already sleep. Wake me _up_ ," Allison says with avid seriousness.

Stiles snorts but nods.

"And if he does anything unsavory to you or does anything to make you—leak from your eyes." Allison knows he hates the word 'cry'. She's being clever here. "I swear I will grab my hunting bow and—"

"Uh—no!" Stiles quickly cuts her off. "Allison. As scary-sweet as that sounds. I'm not sure mom or dad will leave any remains for you to do your whole bow and arrow routine if it comes to that—which I really don't think it will. I know, Scott. He couldn't hurt me."

Allison tucks her hair behind her ear. "Yeah, but—you never know. It's always the nice ones."

"Oh my God, you sound like mom."

Allison gapes and punches Stiles in the shoulder. "Shut up. I do not!"

"Well you certainly can punch like her," Stiles admits with a wince.

Allison scoffs and rolls her eyes. "Big baby. She's never punched you." She sighs and rubs at her arms. "It's not fair, you know. They let you go out and date—"

"Yeah, only after I sign a whole bunch of fucking contracts and agree to insane stipulations."

"—but with me its different," Allison continues, ignoring him. "Why is it so different with me?"

"Probably because you're a girl," Stiles says plainly and ducks when she throws out her fist again. "I'm kidding! That was a joke—a very, _very_ sexist joke. But also one that might be a little true."

"So what—if I had a penis, I would get more freedom to do things?" Allison says.

Stiles snorts. "Sure and you even get the benefit of peeing while you stand up. No, dumbass. If you stopped being a little punk and stopped cowering down when they said no the first time, maybe you could get somewhere. You're a total pushover when it comes to them. It's alright to push back, you know. Put your foot down on the shit you really care about. There's going to come a day when you are going to be epically right on something and they're going to make you fight for it. So fight for it. Draw those battle lines and beat them into submission—corner them against the tight ropes—hypothetically speaking of course. Maybe that's why they let me have my way, because they know I'll fight for what I really want. And that's something they respect."

_Honk, honk._

Stiles heart races and he blinks, pulling himself out of lecture mode. "Is that him?" he asks Allison without turning around.

Allison grins as she glances over his shoulder and waves. "Yup—and uh—you seem to have some company."

Stiles frowns and turns.

Isaac and some blonde girl are smiling at him from the back seat.

Stiles nods with a forced smile before he turns back to Allison. "I didn't know it would be a double date."

Allison claps her hands over his shoulders. "Stiles. Relax. He's probably just playing soccer mom and taking his car-less friends to the party too," she reasons.

"Uh-huh," Stiles says. "Guess that rules out the pre-party make out session. Unless—his friends don't mind a show."

Allison laughs and shoves him in the direction of the car. "Just get out of here before mom comes out and changes her mind."

Stiles waves as he jogs over to the car and opens the door, sliding in. He smiles at Allison as she waves and Scott shifts gears. Stiles turns his attention to Scott.

Scott smiles self-consciously, keeping his eyes on the road. "What?"

"Nothing. You look nice."

Scott smiles widen a little and he chances a glance at Stiles. "I'd say you were giving me a run for my money."

"Ugh—gag me," says the blonde in the back.

Stiles turns. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name. I'm Stiles."

"Yeah I know who you are," she rudely replies, flattening down to fly-aways of her bushy hair. She looks like she's drowning in the grey sweatshirt she's wearing and she looks so pale. And unhappy. Perpetually unhappy.

Scott knuckles the steering wheel. "Erica," he says lowly, glaring at her through the rear view mirror.

Erica just turns and looks at the window, completely ignoring Stiles.

Stiles faces forward. "You've got some interesting taste in friends, Scott," he mutters.

Scotts smiles apologetically. "They aren't always like this. They'll warm up to you," he assures.

And if he didn't sound so naively sure about it, Stiles might have been more inclined to believe it. But Stiles really likes Scott, even enough to deal with his asshole friends. Acting on instinct, he grabs Scott's hand and laces their fingers together. The car jerks a little because he catches Scott off guard, but the thousand-watt smile he gets from Scott is worth that small scare.

"Scott, I swear to God if you crash us—I will grab your mother's shot gun and put you down like Lassie," Isaac warns.

Scott just keeps on smiling. "What was that Isaac? I can't hear you over this awesome Justin Bieber song," and he lets go of Stiles's hand for a moment to turn up the volume until 'Boyfriend' is blaring through the speakers. He wastes no time though in curling his fingers around Stiles's again with an elated grin.

Stiles snickers as Scott starts singing along with the words.

Isaac groans and claps his hands over his ears.

Erica does the same and groans as though she's being tortured.

Stiles kind of wants to leap out of the car too, but the way Scott's thumb sweeps back and forth on the inside of his palm as he obnoxiously rocks back and forth, lip-syncing the song horribly, motivates Stiles to stay.

That and the way Scott seems to be on cloud nine. Like he wouldn't understand what being unhappy was, even if you sat him down and explained it to him with flash cards and colorful pop-up books.

And Stiles thinks, wow—he did that. He makes Scott goofily blissful. And suddenly he can't really imagine thinking or doing anything else.

He likes making Scott happy. It's a starting addiction.

888

When they arrive to Lydia's house, the place is just swarming with overeager teenage bodies. The front lawn is flooded with teenagers. The inside of the house is flooded with teenagers and the pool deck in the back is especially crowded since the DJ and all the booze is located there.

Scott hasn't let Stiles's hand go once during the trek through the house to the back.

Isaac and Erica have made themselves scarce elsewhere. Stiles is silently grateful for that.

'Boyfriend' starts to play, causing Scott and Stiles to glance at each other with a laugh because it's just a little ironic. Scott jokingly asks Stiles if he wants an encore of his incredible singing skills and Stiles said that he would have to pass on the awesomeness. When he glances around, he spots Lydia and Jackson making out in a corner. He looks at Scott, ready to make some joke about public indecency but Scott is staring at something.

"Scott?" Stiles squeezes his hand gently when he doesn't respond.

Scott blinks, turning his attention back on Stiles. He smiles, but it looks a little forced. "Thought I saw someone I knew. It's nothing," he promises. "What do you drink?" he asks, stepping in close and speaking over the music.

"Just about anything, but I wouldn't put it past my parents to whip out a Breathalyzer the minute I get home so let's pay it safe tonight," Stiles suggests.

Scott grins. "I'm really no good at drinking anyway."

Stiles grins back. "Can't say I'm surprised. You look like a lightweight."

"Lightweight?"

"Want to dance?" Stiles says instead with a private smile.

"You're changing subjects but sure," Scott says and tugs Stiles over to the other side of the pool and closer to the DJ.

"I'll warn you, I suck at dancing," Stiles says as he starts to move awkwardly to the beat.

Scott just stands there for a moment, watching him and looking like he's fighting back a smile. "Can't say I'm surprised," he says, throwing Stiles's words back at him. "You look like you have two left feet."

Stiles gives him a deadpan look that makes him laugh and he pulls Stiles in by the waist.

Scott presses in close in perfect timing with the shift of the song (which has morphed into a slow dance). He buries his nose into the side of Stiles's neck and just breathes.

Stiles closes his eyes, twisting a hand in Scott's hair as the other slides slowly down to the middle of Scott's back.

Scott gives this low rumble and flattens his hands against Stiles's waist, gathering him as close as he can while they sway to the music.

It's oddly calming, this embrace. Its unlike anything Stiles has ever felt or has wanted to feel. Anyone else and Stiles would be focused on the more—physical interactions. He's never been one for commitment or serious relationships. He's always had this innate desire inside of him to fill and appease the void he often felt by means of sexual gratification. It was temporary solution, but it was a solution nonetheless.

But Scott.

Scott is different.

Scott makes him feel safe. Makes him feel wanted and makes Stiles desire to want in return. Stiles knows that he's attractive—understands what people see when they look at him. He's not short on confidence. You really cant be when you have a family like his. That's what attracts others to him—his confidence, his ability to be completely comfortable with himself (no matter how spastic he can get on a good day) and his pretty face. But when they get a taste of his personality, they always shrink back and keep the relationship depressingly shallow. No one wants to earnestly date Stiles and handle all his energy outside of the bedroom.

But Scott…

Scott is different and for once, Stiles knows its because Scott just wants to be with him for more than sexual gratification.

Scott smiles and gets ridiculously happy just because Stiles pays attention to him. He just likes being around Stiles—likes the very idea of Stiles.

Scott, who, for some reason knows every lyric to that horrid Justin Bieber song and has such asshole friends.

Scott, who, is just genuinely nice and considerate.

Scott, who, Stiles really, really likes and wants to keep liking forever—and God, he's never had that thought before.

And Stiles—

Stiles has never experienced this before. It's a bit scary and Stiles wants to be optimistic.

"Stiles?" Scott mumbles into the side of his neck.

Stiles swallows. "Yeah."

"You're having a good time right?"

Stiles smiles and rests his chin of Scott's shoulder. Scott sounds so hopeful, it's almost ridiculous. "Yeah," he replies as they continue to sway to the music. "You?"

Scott just hugs him closer, like he has no intention of ever letting go.

That does wild things to Stiles's heart.

"I feel like I'd be good," Scott says as he lifts his head and speaks into his ear. "No matter what as long as your around.

Stiles blinks and flushes. He pulls back while still remaining close. "You can't—" he cuts himself short. "I mean that's—intense. We haven't even—" and again he cuts himself short with another blush.

Scott furrows his eyebrows with a thoughtful frown. "But I mean it."

Stiles internally groans. He wants to say that he knows, because he can hear it in his voice. It's just that he's having a hard time believing Scott is even real.

Scott eyes his face, like he's trying to set every detail to memory. "I'm really glad you came—with me," he says, quite candidly. He swallows, looking nervous. It's clear he wants to kiss Stiles, but he's holding back out of courtesy.

How can this guy be real?

And Stiles, who's never been particularly good at thinking things through, pushes forward and kisses him instead. Just because Scott would take the time to stop and consider that he wouldn't want to kiss Stiles if Stiles didn't want it.

Scott stills in shock but then kisses back enthusiastically. When he does, Stiles gasps quietly, because he can feel this kiss right down to his toes and back up to the short hairs on the back of his neck.

Scott growls and kisses back hungrily, blindly and possessively, sweeping Stiles up into a turmoil of emotions. Emotions he's never even considered until now—and it's like opening his eyes for the first time because as he kisses Scott, he realizes just how lonely he's been.

A switch turns on and Stiles recognizes that Scott is opening something up in him. Something he's been subconsciously denying himself of.

The desire—for more.

Stiles makes a distressed sound as Scott presses his tongue in, suddenly feeling open and vulnerable and overwhelmed. Scott just rumbles soothingly, cupping Stiles's face as he presses his way into Stiles's mouth—into his heart—likes he's trying to leave a mark of himself in Stiles that will last and last. It's worshipful, and Scott kisses like all he wants to do is give and give and never ask for anything in return except the courtesy of being the cause of Stiles's pleasure. And Stiles shudders, briefly thinking that Scott just might very well be the same way during sex, and that just makes him shudder all the more.

And it's too much—too much. His heart is jack-rabbiting and his mind is racing.

He doesn't—doesn't submit like this.

Scott shoves away from him suddenly, stumbling back with a pained expression on his face.

"Scott," Stiles pants, uncomfortably aware that he probably looks flushed and blissed out of his mind. "Are you okay?"

Scott scrunches his eyes and presses a hand to his forehead. "Yeah—fine. Sorry—I just," he groans. "Need to—" He stumbles away, quickly shoving through the crowd.

Stiles feels alert. "Scott!" He follows and tries to push against the crowd and out onto the front yard but by the time he does, Scott is driving off. Stiles stand in the middle of the street, watching the rear view lights disappear into the darkness. Stiles licks his lips and scrubs at his face trying to actively comprehend what just happened.

"Stiles right?"

Stiles frowns and turns, internally commending himself for not drooling because, _holy shit_ —this guy. "Y-yeah," he stammers, flushes and quickly clears his throat. "Yes. I am—Stiles."

Mysterious brooding guy, who makes leather and jeans look like fashion fate, offers a half smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm a friend of Scott's. Derek. Hale."

"Oh. Okay."

Derek stares at him.

Stiles glances around. "Was there anything else?"

Derek frowns and quickly eyes him, confusion etched all over his attractive face.

"Okay…" Stiles mutters as he rubs his arms down. "Well, Derek. Hale. It was nice meeting you for about five seconds but if you don't mind, I'd like to continue to wallow in my confusion and irritation. Alone."

Derek gaze flicks up and he staring. Again. Weirdly and intensely. "I'm a friend of Scott's."

Stiles feels his eyebrows lifts. "Yes. You are. You said that already. We've established this. I'm not hard of hearing," he points out.

Derek's frown deepens.

"It's rude to stare. Just going to throw that out there," Stiles says, shifting from foot to foot.

Derek glances around for a moment before his gaze returns to Stiles. "Can I offer you a ride home?"

Stiles laughs a little skeptically. "And you're supposed to be a friend of Scott's?"

Derek gets this look on his face, like he's trying to figure Stiles out. Like he didn't think this conversation would be so trying. "I thought you said you weren't hard of hearing," he says, hiding his hands in the pockets of his leather. His awesomely warm-looking leather.

Stiles is probably looking at it with blatant longing, but he's too cold to care. "Yeah I'm not—but it's just that you're being nice to me. And in my experience of Scott's friends, that's not a common occurrence. You're not an asshole."

"Would you like me to be?" Derek sounds just a tad annoyed but his tone is too emotionless for Stiles to be sure.

Stiles shrugs and turns his back on him. He's tired (lies, all lies) of looking at his face and those eyes. "Can't say how it wouldn't matter," he replies as he stares off into the dark, guesstimating how far of a hike it would be to his house from here. He really should have paid attention during the drive over. Then again, Stiles never thought his date would run off and abandon him.

Fucking Scott. Maybe he really was too good to be true.

"You know, it's a lot warmer in my car," Derek says, completely monotone.

Stiles snorts. "Yes, because that's the selling point in getting me to get in a car with a complete stranger like I was born yesterday." Stiles shuffles from foot to foot, rubbing up and down his arms. "I'd take freezing to death over being cut into tiny pieces by the world's most attractive serial killer."

"You've met other serial killers?" Derek counters easily.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Not that Derek could see it. "This has got to be the strangest conversation I've ever had. And that's saying something." Stiles digs in his pocket for his phone, fully intending to call his sister but of course, because these things only happen to him, his phone is completely dead. He sighs. "If you kill me—"

"I wont kill you. I promise," Derek says.

Stiles scoffs as he turns and faces him. "That's what they all say."

Derek doesn't reply. He just walks over to a black Camaro parked under a broken street lamp.

Stiles is getting all kinds of eerie vibes from this dude. Nothing that registers him as a threat but something that identifies he has an edge to him.

"Get in," Derek says when he unlocks his door and slides inside.

"Wouldn't kill you to say please," Stiles mutters but does as told.

Derek starts the car and turns on the heat as he shifts gears. He drives forward and into the inky blackness of the road. "You should take your jacket off."

" _And_ …it just got weird. Wow. Not even five seconds and we've just edged into Inappropriate-ville," Stiles says with a snort.

Derek frowns. "The heat will reach you faster if you take off your jacket. Keep it on if you're that uncomfortable."

Stiles shifts in his seat and after a moment of hesitating he shrugs his jacket off, tossing it in the back and making a mental note not to forget it. He settles back in his seat and bounces his leg. He yawns and then sighs.

Stiles doesn't remember falling asleep, except when he does and Derek jerks the car to a stop. Stiles has had that happen to him way too many times before to shrug it off as an accident. He sits up and scrubs his face before stumbling out the car. He slams the door shut, not even bothering to say thank you because he kind of doesn't like Derek for some reason.

Stiles fumbles for his keys, uneasy by Derek's heavy gaze, which he can still feel on him even as he pushes into his house. He leans back against the door and waits, relaxing when he hears the crunch of gravel and then dead silence.

"Ah, shit. I forgot my jacket," Stiles curses as he hikes up the stairs. He grumbles as his feet carry him over to Allison's room, and he doesn't bother to knock when he enters.

Allison, who's sitting at her vanity mirror applying her Frankenstein-colored facial mask, jumps in fright and glares at him.

Stiles flops face down on her bed.

"Why are you back so early? It's barely been an hour," Allison points out as she glances at the clock on her nightstand through the reflection of her mirror. "Wait—did something happen? Tell me everything." She stands and plops down on his back as he makes a small noise at her weight.

Stiles details his night as best as he can.

Allison is curiously quiet at the end of it all. But then, she says. "That—asshole."

Stiles snorts. Allison rarely curses.

"I can't believe he—I mean who even—God. That asshole. Are you mad. I would be pissed," Allison decides as she gets up and sits down on the floor at the edge of the bed.

Stiles shrugs. "I don't really feel anything right now. I'm just tired." Lies, all lies. He's pissed off and hurt with a side of confused.

Allison eyes him thoughtfully. "You really liked him."

"I was starting to," Stiles admits. He sighs and rolls onto his back. "Story of my life."

Allison reaches out and rubs his arm. "Hey—his loss."

"My gain," Stiles sighs. "I know. I'm just—tired of gaining."

Allison doesn't say anything to that. She rubs his arm and lets her head fall back against the edge of the bed.

_Ding-dong!_

_Dingdongdingdon_ _dingdon_ _dingdong_ _!_

"Doorbell," Allison says as she looks towards her door.

Stiles points to her nose and says, "Face."

Allison slaps his hand away. "No you idiot. Go get the door. Mom's taken her Xanax for the night and so she's knocked out."

"Why can't you do it?"

Allison just points to the green goop on her face.

"Your face. Got it. Perfectly reasonable," Stiles mutters sarcastically as he rolls to his feet and out her door. __

 _Dingdongdingdon_ _dingdon_ _dingdong_ _!_

"Okay! Hold your horses!" Stiles shouts as he jogs down the stairs and unlocks the door, whipping it open.

It's Isaac and Erica, and they look frantic—only then they don't when they see him.

"You're alive," Isaac states, sounding surprised as he glances around behind Stiles.

Stiles's eyebrows shoot up. "Yeah. I'd like to think so."

Isaac nods and exhales.

Erica glares. "Come on, let's go. We did our part."

Stiles watches in confusion as they walk away. "Nice to see you guys too. Feel free to come back anytime and harass my doorbell so you can check up on me," he calls after them.

Isaac and Erica slide in the car, and as Isaac drives off, Erica gives Stiles the middle finger.

"Charming people," Stiles says as he steps back in the house and closes the door, locking it again. He jogs up the steps and back to Allison's room. She's still right where he left her.

"Who was it?" she asks curiously.

Stiles shrugs his mouth. "Jehovah's Witnesses."

"This late?" Allison questions skeptically.

Stiles flops backwards on her bed again. "What can I say? They must know we just moved in, they didn't want to waste anymore time."

Allison just snorts.

Stiles is hit with a sudden thought. "Did I mention that I left my jacket in Derek's car. My phone was in those pockets—and my wallet."

Allison smiles slowly before she chuckles.

Stiles just brains her with a pillow.

"Google maps it is!" Allison declares. "We can drive out early if you want." She plops down in her desk chair and lifts up the screen of her laptop.

"I want to never see that dude again. He rubs me the wrong way."

Allison's fingers flutter over her keyboard and she waits only a minute before she says, "You really need to start thinking before you speak."

Stiles just throws another pillow and steals a few Reese's bites out of the stomach of Allison's purple lizard/bear thing.

888

When Allison meant early, Stiles didn't actually think she meant _early_. He wants his jacket and his phone and his wallet back—but he doesn't want it back this much. It's Saturday. He should be sleeping in. He should be in his bed—where he can be depressed and passed out at the same time.

Allison turns down a private road and parks at the end of the drive. "Huh."

Stiles blinks. "Uh—Allison? You sure we have the right address? Cause this place is looking a little—I don't know—burned down. And abandoned."

Allison turns the car off. "This is the address I got from the yellow pages." She frowns and chews on the bottom of her lip.

Stiles loves his sister. But he doesn't always have to like her. Take now for example. They're sitting in her car, staring at an old, decrepit house that looks like it's in serious need of TLC and it's six in the morning and Stiles should really be at home, suffocating himself under his pillows and comforter.

Allison unbuckles her seat as she picks up her phone out of the cup holder. "This doesn't make sense," she mutters.

Stiles leans back with a sigh and rubs at his forehead.

"I'm going to try to see if there's a different address," she says. "Even though—this was like the only Hale address I could find in all of Beacon Hills."

Stiles sits up suddenly shushing her. He narrows his eyes with a frown as he peers through the windshield at the far side of the house.

Allison glances around. "What?"

"Nothing—I," Stiles squints his eyes. "I just thought I saw someone."

Allison turns her gaze in the direction he's looking. "Well. Let's go check it out." She pops open the door and slams it shut.

Stiles just watches her for a minute before unbuckling his own seatbelt. "Or, you know, we could just stay in here and not get murdered," he mutters as he pops open his door and slams it shut. He sighs and shoves his hands in his pockets as he treks after his sister, who has disappeared around the corner of the house.

Allison screams.

Stiles pales and runs, picking up a broken beer bottle along the way and jumping around the corner. "What? What! What happened?" he pants.

Allison is flattened against the side of the house as Isaac and Erica point their shovels at her threateningly.

"Dude!" Stiles says, dropping the bottle instantly. "That's my sister. Stand down."

Isaac and Erica relax, lowering their shovels.

"What the hell are you doing out here anyway?" Stiles questions, stepping in front of his sister like a shield.

Erica scoffs and blows her puffy blonde hair out of her sweating face. "I could ask you the same thing, Stilinski."

"It's Stiles," he corrects.

Erica just makes a face. "Whatever." She turns away and precedes digging as if it were perfectly normal and not all kinds of strange.

"What are you doing out here?" Isaac asks, thrusting the shovel into the ground and leaning into it.

"Not that it's any of your business—but I was looking for Derek," Stiles admits. "By the way, Allison this is Isaac and Erica. Scott's asshole friends. Asshole friends—this is my sister Allison."

Erica keeps digging as if they weren't there.

Isaac smirks and salutes Allison. He turns his gaze back to Stiles. "Man, you guys must have a death wish or something."

"What makes you say that?" Allison asks.

Isaac doesn't elaborate though, he just says, "Guess we're about to find out, huh?" and then turns to help Erica dig, which speeds along the process.

Stiles does not even want ask either of them about Scott. Except that maybe he does.

Allison leans against his shoulder as they watch the odd couple dig and dig and dig until Erica drops to her knees and starts clawing at the ground with her hands. They step closer as Isaac drops to his knees as well and aids her in clawing at the ground.

Stiles vaguely makes out the outline of some kind of laundry looking bag. Which, in turn, causes him to make a joke about digging up dirty laundry.

"Shut up, Stiles," Isaac and Erica say simultaneously.

Erica pulls at the strings keeping the bag tied together and yanks it open.

Allison steps back and cups a hand over her mouth. "Oh God. Is that a…"

Stiles eyes the decaying dog. "Wolf? Yeah. I should say so."

They all glance at each other.

"This is the Hale place isn't it?" Stiles asks because he has a feeling either Isaac or Erica would know.

Isaac stands with a frown and dusts his hands off. "Yeah," he says, rather distractedly. And who could really blame him. "I mean—it used to be. Before the fire, a long time ago."

Erica turns and kicks at her shovel angrily. "This doesn't make sense. Scott said—"

"Erica," Isaac hisses, cutting her short. He gives her a look.

Stiles stares down at the rotting wolf. "If this _is_ Derek's place—which is beyond strange—why exactly did you two come here?"

"We were looking for something," Isaac replies vaguely.

"Something underground apparently, hence the reason for the shovels," Stiles adds.

Erica glares at him and climbs out of the dirt pit, grey sweatshirt caked with dirt smudges as well as her cheeks and hair.

"So is this like a thing he does? Derek. Burying dead dogs, cause if it is, I don't really need to get my phone or my jacket or my wallet back from him," Stiles decides, and not because he's scared and kind of freaking out that he got a ride home from a pyscho. "Oh my God, he knows where I live."

"You know what? He's probably stealing your identity," Erica says in mock seriousness.

Stiles glares at her. She smiles very unkindly at him, and Stiles glances up and away as he says, "Erica. I'm beginning to think you don't like me…" He trails off as he spots something.

Allison moves to his side. "Stiles what is it?"

"Wolfsbane," he mutters faintly as he steps around the gaping dirt hole and crouches down towards the floor.

Two seconds later and Allison is crouching down with him. She reaches out and skims her fingers along the purple petals. "It's beautiful," she whispers in awe.

"Yeah—and also incredibly rare," Stiles adds, picking it up and meeting resistance. He pulls, stumbling to his feet as Allison steadies him and they cock their head at the thread of rope attached to the base of the flower.

"What is that?" Erica asks, pressing into Stiles's other side and reaching out to poke the flower.

Stiles slaps her hand away. "Ah-ah! No touching," he says sweetly as he continues to unearth the rope from the ground.

Erica rubs at the back of her hand with a glare.

Isaac just leans against the wall of the dirt pit and follows Stiles with his eyes as Stiles circles him, once, twice—four times, coming up short at the other end of the rope.

"Huh." Stiles frowns as he holds it up for all of them to see. "Dead end."

Allison glances back down into the pit and pales, eyes going wide. She hyperventilates, pointing frantically before she passes out.

Isaac, Erica and Stiles cock their head as they watch her go down before looking in the direction she indicates.

"Oh—"

"—my—"

"—is that a dead body?" Stiles shrieks, throwing up the rope and the flower. "That's a dead body!" Stiles hops from foot to foot. "That is a body that used to be a dog but is not a dog and now is a dead body." Stiles stiffens suddenly. Then slowly, turning to Isaac and Eric, who are crowding around it and are severely weirdly calm about the whole thing, says, "What the fuck?"

"Don't freak out, Stilinski," Erica huffs as she climbs out of the dirt pit and dusts off her hands, which Stiles notes are shaking.

"I can't be the only one freaking," Stiles says, lifting a hand settling it on the back of his head. "Uh—awe geez, Allison." He walks around the dirt pit and drops to his knees beside his sister. He lifts her up and cradles half of her body over his lap and uses one hand to fan at her face. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Erica take a few shaky steps before she collapses on her side, convulsing. "Uh—Isaac! I think Erica is having a seizure."

Isaac lunges out of the dirt pit, dropping to his knees as he cradles her head in his lap, groping at himself for his phone.

Erica's hands contort and her arms fold in as her eyes roll back, gurgling sounds streaming from her mouth as her body jerks.

Stiles looks away and down at his sister. He tries shaking her a little to get her to wake up but he gets no response. "Ah, man. You're not going to like this." He lifts his hand, hesitating for a moment before he slaps her cheek.

Allison's eyes shoot open. "Ow!" she says, cradling her cheek before punching Stiles in the stomach.

"Ah! Damn it, Allison," he chokes, bowling over and pushing her off of him. "It was the only way to get you up again."

"Well next time leave me unconscious then," she complains, grabbing handfuls of dead leaves and throwing them at him.

"Hey! Hey!" Stiles ducks away before throwing some back. "Stop it! Stop!"

Allison does, but not without glaring and standing on her feet with as much dignity she can muster. She dusts of her clothes and avoids looking into the pit as her eyes roam over to Isaac and Erica. "Oh my God—is she okay?" She walks over and drops down to Erica's other side.

Isaac sniffs, eyes red as he rocks her. "Um—" he rubs at his forehead. "I don't know. She's never had one this bad," he admits. "I called the hospital—they said they were sending someone." He looks around frantically.

"Okay, okay," Allison says gently. "It's okay. We'll just breathe through this until then, okay?"

Isaac nod and inhaling and exhaling shakily.

Stiles stands at the corner of the house, looking towards the driveway to see if he can spot anyone coming. After a minute or two—he does. "Uh—guys?"

Isaac and Allison glance over to him.

"Is it a good thing or a bad thing that Derek's back? Because he's back and we just unearthed a dead body on the side of his house," Stiles rambles quickly. He leans back from view as he listens to the sound of the engine being cut off, and then a door opening and closing. Stiles carefully peeks around the corner and watches as Derek moves to the trunk of his car. He pops it open and pulls out Stiles's jacket before slamming the trunk close. He turns the jacket back and forth before he lifts it to his nose.

Derek Hale was sniffing his things.

Sniffing.

His _things_.

Why do these things only happen to him?

Derek lowers the jacket, sniffing at the air before he turns to look at Allison's car, which happens to be parked in plain sight.

" _And…_ that's not good," Stiles whispers.

Derek tenses and whips his head in Stiles's direction with a glare.

"Shit!" Stiles flies back and almost trips in his haste. "He saw me. Oh, man, he saw me, and I just killed us. He is going to kill us! He is going to come around that corner and axe murder our faces!"

Allison shushes him. "No—no you hear that?"

Sirens.

It was sirens.

Stiles relaxes and sends up some grateful prayers.

Isaac lifts up Erica, who has gone unconscious at this point, and carries her quickly so they can be spotted in plain sight.

Stiles offers Allison a hand, and she accepts it with a grateful smile, hoisting herself to her feet. They trek around to the front of the house to see the paramedics hoisting Erica up into the back of the ambulance.

A few cops brush past Stiles and Allison, no doubt going to take a gander at the corpse on the ground.

Derek is being pushed against a cop car, and as he's being handcuffed, he's stares directly at Stiles.

Stiles feels that stare right down to his bones. "Come on," he says to Allison, still trapped by Derek's gaze. "Let's get out of here."

They turn and amble their way to Allison's car.

Neither of them notices Isaac sliding in the front seat of the cop car after the police have pushed Derek inside.

Allison and Stiles don't talk about what happened.

888

Sunday afternoon finds Stiles in the backyard shooting hoops with the previous owners' six-foot basket that had been left behind. Stiles actually isn't any good for making teams, but he still likes playing for fun. Mostly he shoots hoops by himself when he just wants to think and mull things over.

Basketball is his thinking game. Lacrosse is the exact opposite.

He's working on his three point throws, mainly his release, when Scott appears out of thin air and catches the air ball he will deny was an air ball if anyone ever be so bold as to ask, before it falls to the ground.

"Hey," Scott says gently, lowering the ball.

Stiles steps back some, uncomfortably aware that he doesn't have a shirt on. "Hey yourself," he replies.

Awkward silence follows.

"Look I—I'm sorry about what happened Friday night," Scott says sincerely. "Please know I had a good reason." He tosses the ball back.

Stiles catches it with ease. He turns the ball over in his hands as he looks down at it. "Must have been a really good reason." He glances up at Scott.

Scott frowns guiltily. "I'll understand if you hate me—though I hope you don't. I don't know what I'd do if you did," he confesses and gazes longingly over at Stiles under his ridiculously long lashes with the most heart wrenching pitiful look in his eyes.

Completely, unfair.

"I brought your jacket," Scott says, holding up Stiles's jacket like a peace offering.

Stiles drops his basketball and treks closer to Scott without thinking, ignoring how pleased Scott looks when he shortens the distance between them. "How did you get it?" He eyes his jacket a little suspiciously.

Scott grins. "Isaac snagged it from Derek and gave it to me so I could have a good excuse to come and see you," he explains.

"Ah," Stiles simply says, wondering just what else he and Isaac shared. Wondering if Scott knows about the craziness that ensued that morning.

Scott coincidentally answers that question by saying, "And he told about me what happened. Sorry."

"Yeah, well, I am too." Stiles shifts uneasily, rubbing the back of his neck. "S'not exactly how I wanted to spend my Saturday morning."

"Sorry," Scotty repeats. "That guy is—I don't know. But he's not my friend, you should know that. No matter what he's said."

Stiles grins a little. "Yeah, I figured. He was way nicer to me than your real friends," he jokes.

Scott frowns. "What _did_ he say to you?"

Stiles shrugs. "Not much of anything. Just offered me a ride home and I stupidly accepted it. But I'm counting my blessings because nothing happened. He actually dropped me off at home. Which is all kinds of weird since apparently he knows where I live because I never told him my address or anything."

Scott is strangely still and silent. Then his chest starts to shake as he knuckles Stiles's jacket—it almost sounds like he's growling. And before Stiles can react, Scott whips his hands out and tugs him in close, burying his face into the side of Stiles's neck.

Stiles just stands there, arms pinned to his side. "Scott—uh, you alright?"

"Yeah," Scott mumbles but doesn't let go. "Just glad your okay."

Stiles feels something inside of him soften at that.

Scott exhales carefully. "Stiles?"

Stiles waits.

"I'm sorry. I don't want you to hate me or think I'm an asshole—because I don't normally—I would never just…you know?"

Stiles kind of does.

"And I need you to give me another chance because—because—" Scott lifts his head and kisses Stiles's right cheek and then his left before resting his forehead against his. "I wasn't lying when I said I liked you," he whispers.

Stiles's closes his eyes and just breathes for a moment. Scott's breaking down his defenses. "Am I going to regret this?" He felt Scott shake his head. He sighs and opens his eyes.

Scott looks adorably happy as he meets Stiles's eyes.

Stiles snorts at the image of Scott having a tail. He'd probably be wagging it this moment. "Okay. You get another a chance because apparently I like you or something." He shrugs.

Scott beams. "Thank you! You won't regret it, I promise."

Stiles lets himself be swept up in a hug and twirled around. He laughs. "Okay, okay. Put me down! No Scott! Bad touch! _Bad_ touch!"

Scott smiles but he lowers Stiles to his feet.

"So are you free for the rest of the day?" Stiles asks.

Scott nods.

"Cool. You can stay for dinner then. My parents want to meet you—though I have to warn you beforehand, they can be a little intense," Stiles warns as Scott laces their fingers together with both hands. Stiles's jacket is lying at their feet, forgotten.

Scott grins. "I think I can manage," he assures, stepping in close.

Stiles snorts and steps back. "See that's what everyone thinks until they find out they cant. Trust me on this. I think that if it gets to be too much, we should have a safe word."

"Safe word?" Scott repeats, stepping in close again.

"Yes. A safe word, like…" Stiles trails off as he thinks, taking a step back again. "Cannoli. Or something like—Icelandic sheepdogs."

Scott laughs and gently squeezes Stiles's hands. "Yeah because that's not conspicuous at all." He steps in again, wrapping an arm around Stiles's waist.

"Scott—I'm being serious. This is a serious discussion that needs to be discussed seriously. Maybe if we could stand a little apart…" He pushes Scott back and then takes another step back, ignoring the playful glint in Scott's eyes. "And you could stop staring at my lips, as enticing as they may be, we can come up with the proper exit strategy."

Scott straightens his posture and tucks his hands behind him. "How do you know your parents wont like me?" he offers.

Stiles snorts. "My parents aren't human, that's how I know. They're like the Grinch—their hearts are like two sizes too small."

"Don't worry about it. I'm not," Scott says easily with a shrug. He drops his hands and walks forward.

Stiles expects him to get all grabby again, but he just brushes past Stiles and goes to pick up his basketball instead.

Well.

Stiles is not disappointed.

Not at all.

Scott flicks his wrists and catches the twirling ball on the tip of his index finger. "You play basketball?"

"Recreationally," Stiles replies. "Why?"

Scott shakes his head as he tossed the ball back and forth. "Just wondering if you would be interested in a little one on one."

Stiles narrows his eyes suspiciously but Scott just gives him a cheeky smile. "Sure."

"Great. Now," Scott twirls the basketball on the tip of his index finger again. "Rules of the game—we both have to stand right here and shoot. We both get just one try and the first person to reach twenty-one, wins."

"Simple enough."

Scott shrugs. "Let's add a wager to make it interesting."

Stiles laugh. "I knew there was a catch. Okay, what kind of wager?"

Scott pretends to think about it, even though it's obvious he already knows what he's going to say. "How about this," he begins. "For each point I score, I get a kiss." He grins.

Stiles straightens his expression, a little uncomfortable with that proposal since the last time they made out Scott had ran off. "You wont run off this time?"

Scott looks embarrassed and guilty. "Promise."

"And if I make a basket?"

Scott shrugs with a smile. "Dunno—what do you want?"

Stiles deliberately runs his eyes over Scott's body slowly, enjoying the blush that blossoms on Scott's face. He hums thoughtfully for a moment. He meets Scott's eyes and says, "Okay. I got it. For each point I score, you have to tell me the answer to any question I ask you—truthfully."

Scott nods. "Cool. Game starts now," and without warning he jumps up with his shot, flicking his wrist and releasing, landing a perfect three pointer. Scott grins and looks at Stiles expectantly.

"You're a cheater," Stiles mumbles. "That shouldn't count."

Scott just waits patiently with a grin.

Stiles scoops up the basketball and circles Scott before landing a kiss on his cheek. "You never said where," he points out as he turns and tries for a three pointer. Beginner's luck helps him land his first shot as well. "Favorite music artist?"

"The Black Keys," Scott says as he jogs over and scoops up the ball, returning to his original position.

"Yeah they're pretty good. Personally I'm more of a Dubstep kind of guy," Stiles says and watches as Scott makes the shot perfectly (again).

Scott grins in triumphant before he frowns. "Dubstep? Really?"

Stiles snickers as he scoops up the ball for his turn. He kisses Scott on the tip of his nose this time. "No not really. TV on the Radio is my favorite." Stiles dribbles the ball, even though its moot point since their standing on grass. Stiles lines up his shot and goes for the release.

Scott coughs.

Stiles misses and curses, shoving at Scott who's laughing.

Scott kisses his forehead and says, "Ask me something anyway."

Stiles does, but only out of spite.

Four rounds and an hour later, they're sprawled out on grass on their backs, shoulders touching and staring up at the dimming sky. Stiles is sweaty and out of breath but Scott doesn't even look winded. He actually finds himself asking about that.

Scott turns his head and traces his eyes over Stiles's face. "I've been working on my control. Just something Isaac's been helping me with. He calls it mastering one's self."

Stiles makes a thoughtful sound. "Well you didn't even work up a sweat so I think I should book a one on one appointment with Isaac. Kid's got some skills."

Scott frowns.

Stiles realizes how that sounds and he snorts. "I promise that sounded completely innocent in my head," he says, tangling his fingers with Scott's.

Scott grudgingly smiles and squeezes back. "No one on one sessions with anyone other than me," he says sternly, rolling over and looming over Stiles. "I'll teach you everything I know if you really want to learn."

Stiles tangles his fingers in Scott's hair. "Deal."

Scott smiles softly before ducking his head and capturing Stiles's lips.

Even as he kisses Stiles, he doesn't stop smiling and that in turn makes Stiles laugh because Scott is the most unbelievably, happiest person he's ever met.

Then they're hit with a powerful blow of wind just as Scott's hand was easing it's way up Stiles's shirt and they're forced to spring apart.

Chris is standing not even four steps away from them, rumbling leaf blower in hand and a sharp smile. "Boys. Why don't you come inside? Dinner's almost ready." He cuts off the leaf blower and disappears through the sliding doors.

"Yeah, thanks dad," Stiles calls after him. He sighs and shakes his head. "Now you see what I mean when I say intense? It's like they're on a mission to make sure Stiles gets no fun time. And Stiles would like to have some fun times. Many, many times. In several, gratifying positions." He looks at Scott but Scott is staring off in the direction his dad went with a pale expression. Stiles sits up. "You alright?" He rests a hand on Scott's shoulder.

Scott blinks and snaps out of it. "Huh? I mean yeah. Yeah." He gives a shaky smile.

"Dude—you're already scared and you haven't even met my mom. My dad's actually the nice one." Stiles stands and dusts himself off. "Maybe I should tell them you have to go home and we can postpone—"

"No!" Scott grabs his hand. "You don't have to do that. I want to meet them. It'll be fine. I'll be fine," he assures.

Stiles is skeptical.

Scott stands and kisses him and it's incredibly effective because Stiles's thoughts stutter to a halt. "Let's go before your dad decides to use the hose." He gives Stiles another kiss, and then one more and then more before he pries himself away and heads towards the house.

Stiles blinks a little dazedly as he runs his fingertips over his lips with a smile. Then says, "But what if I like the hose? Scott!" He swipes his jacket from off the floor as he follows Scott inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was that? I'm trying. I really am. I just need some feedback.


	3. Chapter 3

_If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does._

**-The Duchess (Alice in Wonderland)**

888

Dinner is in fact, not almost ready, not even close—but his father gets the award for most creative 'love-life-ruining' lie. After all, his father went to school for the art of trolling and graduated as the valedictorian of his class.

Stiles takes Scott up to his room just to spite his dad, which works because Chris gets this pinched look on his face when he watches Stiles grab Scott by the hand and take him upstairs. Like it was perfectly acceptable.

It isn't in Chris's book.

Stiles also makes sure to slam his door real loud behind them. Cause—you know—closed doors are always an insinuation waiting to happen.

But Stiles doesn't tackle Scott onto his bed or anything like that—though he'd like that very much, don't get him wrong. It's just that he's sweaty and a little disgusting and he'd like to very much not be when dinner is _actually_ ready.

Scott scoops up Stiles's slinky from off his minefield of the floor (he's never really been all that organized when it comes to the homestead) and plops back on his bed, watching Stiles go to and fro around his room. And though Stiles wouldn't say it out loud, he gets a secret thrill from being the sole focus of Scott's attention.

"I'm going to hop in the shower. You can use my computer if you get bored or watch TV—remote's over there." Stiles points to his nightstand as he throws his towel over his shoulder and grabs a new set of clothes. "Just—don't leave this room, okay? My parents will eat you alive and I'd rather they didn't."

Scott smiles and continues playing with the slinky with a nod.

Stiles grins, just because he has to, and walks over, kissing Scott chastely and ducking out of the way when Scott tries to pull him in for more. He tucks himself away in his bathroom, strips and climbs into his shower.

Fifteen minutes later, clean and dressed, Stiles ventures back into his room, pausing when his bare feet comes into contact with a candy wrapper. He frowns and glances around, noticing the colorful array of candy wrappers that are littering his already messy floor in different areas.

He can't spot Scott though—except he does when he walks to the other side of his bed and sees Scott curled up under his window against the bright orange beanbag chair Stiles keeps there. He's curled up and playing with Stiles's red Nintendo 3DS, shoving a bite-sized milky way into his mouth.

"Dude!" Stiles says with a fair amount of exasperation. He tries not to put his hands on his hips and look like some kind of disgruntled mother getting ready to chastise her rambunctiously misbehaved toddler. But that plan fails because he totally puts his hands on his hips and glares accusingly at Scott.

Scott just peers over the top of the Nintendo, still chewing, and smiles. "What?" he asks, and its not even fair how perfectly innocent he looks.

"I'm pretty sure you ate all my candy, that's what," Stiles huffs as he kicks at Scott's leg. "How did you even find it? I had it perfectly stashed away in carefully selected places." And he did—had. Call it a quirk but Stiles, much like his sister, has a thing about hording confections and tucking them away in random places. He's also very good about the creativeness in where he tucks them away.

"It was a little hard?" Scott offers with a shrug, turning back to the game in his hands. "Guess I just have a really good nose," he adds simply.

Stiles stares down at him. He stares down until Scott smiles a little tauntingly without looking up. And really, Stiles just want to throttle him. But he also want to shove his tongue in Scott's mouth, just to chase down the chocolate. It's an odd internal confliction.

"I'm revoking your entry privileges. You're not allowed to come into my room anymore. _And_ I'm fining you. You're going have to replace every single piece of sugary delight you shoved into your greedy little mouth, plus interest. Stop laughing, Scott, this is a serious transgression you've committed!"

Scott holds up his hands to show he doesn't mean to but the jerk is still laughing.

The idiot has a nice laugh.

Stiles is still not amused though. "You haven't even been my boyfriend for three hours and already you're on probation," he grumbles.

Scott chokes, causing laughter to die abruptly. He's got this kind of startled and surprised look on his face as he thumps at his chest. "What?"

"What?"

"You just said—I mean—do you…" Scott trails off as he begins to blush. "You consider us boyfriends?" he asks carefully.

Stiles crosses his arms and manages his most serious expression, even though all he want to do is smile at Scott's adorableness. "Well I don't know anymore," he says. "You've gone and stolen all my good chocolate. I'm beginning to question your motives."

Scott, for the most part, looks like he's only half-listening—he's got that sunshiny smile on his face again. He gets a few fingers curled in Stiles's shirt and tugs, managing to get Stiles to stumble forward and trip on top of him.

"Hey—" Stiles starts to protest, because damn it, he really is irritated and Scott's not allowed to be all happy because of him right now. No sir. Not when he's ransacked all of Stiles's fancy ninety-ninety cent chocolate. "You better not hug me. I mean it. I don't want it. I renounce your hug, you grubby little chocolate troll!"

But Scott's not paying him any attention. He doesn't even seem to care that Stiles is slightly irritated. He's rearranging Stiles's to straddle his waist before pulling him in into a tight hug. Even though Stiles told him not to.

Stiles contemplates struggling, he really does, but the thing is that Scott is really awesome at hugs and well—Stiles has never had anyone beside Allison hug him like this. He likes it. So sue him. Scott is an awesome hugger.

He'll have to be self-righteously upset some other time.

He sighs and curls his arms around Scott's chest as he presses his forehead against the side of Scott's neck. Scott squeezes a little tighter and the hug, which was edging along fantastic, completely topples over into perfection. Stiles slumps into it, feeling boneless and safe and at ease. He doesn't get a lot of chances to feel like this.

Scott loosens his hold to rub circles into Stiles's back, as though he senses Stiles's need for comfort. Stiles smiles a little at that, and shifts down a little lower on Scott's waist so he can flatten his ear against his chest and listen to his heart. Scott's heart sounds slightly quickened but it steadies after a while.

Eventually Scott goes back to playing his game and Stiles just lays over him like a blanket as he listens to the sound effects while he drums his fingers against Scott's spine.

Stiles gets curious after a while and asks, "What are you playing?"

"Wolf Hunt: Vendetta," Scott responds in a distracted kind of way. Then when he beats whatever level he's on, he goes on to say, "I'm actually surprised you even have a game like this."

"What makes you says that?"

"You seem more like a Super Mario Brothers type," Scott clarifies with a shrug.

Stiles goes a little quiet.

Scott chuckles. "You are, aren't you?" he teases as he pokes at Stiles's side.

Stiles squirms and jolts, sitting back on Scott's lap as he leans forward with his hands to Scott's chest. He glares. "Super Mario is a socially acceptable game," he points out. He's not being defensive. Really. He's not.

"I know," Scott laughs, resting his hand over one of Stiles's. "Never said it wasn't. I'm just wondering what you're doing with this." He holds up the Nintendo.

"I've never actually touched the game—but I let Allison borrow my Nintendo from time to time. So she would have been the last person to play with it," Stiles explains. "My Aunt Kate got the game for me last Christmas. Not really sure why. Then again I can't rationalize anything that woman does," he continues thoughtfully. "You know she once took Allison and I to a shooting range when we were eight? Like what does an eight year old need to learn how to sharp shoot for? Allison loved it though. She would. She loves Kate indiscriminately. Me on the other hand, well—she may be family but she still gives me the creeps. She has this vibe—like she'd have no trouble gobbling down a couple of live rabbits." He pauses thoughtfully and looks at Scott. "Know what I mean?"

Scott is staring at his mouth and Stiles is pretty sure Scott has been staring at his mouth the whole time.

"Scott!" Stiles pushes at him and then leans over him to grab one of his pillows, which he uses to whack Scott over the head with.

Scott raises his arms to shield himself from the blows. "What? I was listening! I was! Where else am I supposed to look?" he grunts.

"How about in my eyes?" Stiles suggests with one last whack before he tosses it over his shoulder.

Scott drops his arms and pushes up into a sitting position until he's face to face with Stiles. "I can do that too," he promises, sliding his hands up Stiles's back. "But you can't blame me if you start rambling and my eyes wander. I mean—your mouth is just…" Scott pauses, struggling to find the word until he just eventually leans forward and kisses him. "Tempting," he whispers when they break apart.

Stiles rolls his eyes upward with an exasperated grin.

"I still heard everything you said though!" Scott promises. And as Stiles open his mouth to call him out on it, he quickly blurts, "Your Aunt Kate bought you the game for Christmas and she took you to a shooting range when you were eight and she gives you the creeps but your sister adores her." He pauses to take a breath. "And you suspect she eats live rabbits or something."

Stiles stares at him for a few seconds before he grumbles, "You got lucky."

Scott laughs and smiles, looking complete pleased with himself. "Yeah, I kind of did," he admits, looking at Stiles with—something.

Stiles coughs and glances away, fully aware that his cheeks have gone pink. Scott cups his jaw and gently turns his face back before he leans forward and kisses him. Stiles sighs into it, cocking his head to deepen it, opening up easily when Scott teases his tongue in. Stiles shudders against him when Scott's fingers flutters up and down his spine. They're chest to chest now, heartbeat to heartbeat and Stiles is tangling his hands into Scott's hair.

Stiles has a thing for grabbing hair—has always loved grabbing his partner's hair. Scott doesn't seem to mind, his tongue gets a little more aggressive actually, pressing into Stiles as if he's searching for something. And Stiles tightens his thighs against Scott's waist, rocking down, slightly annoyed and intrigued by the way he can taste chocolate on Scott's tongue.

Scott rumbles with the kiss, chest vibrating with it and after a moment he pulls back so they can both catch a breath before diving in again. Stiles grins and turns—makes Scott chase after his mouth, grinding down when Scott comes close just so he can make Scott falter and forget for one blissful second just what he was chasing after.

And while Scott is distracted by the twist of his hips, he turns back, kissing him again and again and again, pulling back when Scott tries to deepen it. Scott makes a helplessly frustrated sound and Stiles widens his grin, latching on gently to Scott's bottom lip and rolling it between his teeth playfully, grinding down just a little harder.

Scott groans, resting his forehead against Stiles. "You're going to kill me," he promises.

Stiles grins a little more deviously as he ducks his head and sucks on the base of Scott's throat. Then he drags his tongue all the way up to his ear. "Just wait till I can show you exactly what I can do with my _tempting_ mouth," he whispers, grinding down again.

Scott growls and flips them over, pining Stiles to the floor. His hips stutters forward, like he can't quite help it and Stiles bites his bottom lip to keep from making a sound because it feels really good and— _holy shit_ —maybe this was a bad idea.

He has no desire for his parents to hear him and Scott have sex.

But he really, really, _really_ wants to have sex with Scott right now and it's getting harder to focus on why they shouldn't. Especially when Scott hides his face on the side of his throat, nipping gently as he slowly rocks his hips forward, once, twice—four blissful times and Stiles groans, digging his fingers into Scott's back. He can feel just how hard Scott is, feels the echoing hardness in his own jeans and _fuck_ , he hasn't dry humped anyone since junior high.

He'll—he'll come like this if Scott—if he doesn't—stop—

Stiles feels a rising wail force its way up out of his throat and he's close—so close.

_Knock, knock, knock._

Stiles and Scott spring apart.

Scott bumps his head against Stiles's nightstand with a curse and Stiles is trying to keep his heart from bursting out of his chest.

"Stiles," Victoria says on the other side of his door. "You and your guest need to come down. Dinner's ready." She clicks away in her high heels.

Stiles exhales and scrubs at his face. His mother's voice had served as a bucket of ice-cold water and needless to say, he didn't have to worry about making his hard-on go away before he went downstairs.

Scott, who is still rubbing the back of his head, looks to be in the same boat.

They both glance at each other before laughing, helping each other to their feet.

"Ready for this?" Stiles asks as he exhales, walking to his door and opens his door. "Still time to back out."

Scott hugs him from behind and rests his chin on his shoulder. "Nope. You can't get rid of me now."

"Not trying to," Stiles retorts, poking Scott in the middle of his forehead playfully. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He grabs Scott's hand and leads him down the steps to the dining area where his dad and Allison (and is that Matt?) are already waiting.

Stiles and Scott sit across from Allison and Matt as Victoria appears with a large glass tray.

"I hope everyone's hungry," Victoria says as she serves her husband first, then Stiles and Allison. "I've worked very hard on this. Scott, Matt—I hope you brought your appetites. This mostacholi is actually a family recipe."

Scott smiles as he's served next. "Thanks, Mrs. Argent. It looks delicious."

"Suck up," Stiles mutters with a snort as he kicks at Scott's feet under the table.

Scott grins down at his plate but doesn't deny it.

Chris watches them very carefully.

"Tell me when, Matt," Victoria says as she goes to serve him next.

"Uh—mom," Allison says, looking as immensely uncomfortable as Matt does. "Matt's a vegetarian."

Victoria pauses and her expression goes a bit blank. "Is that so?" she says quietly. "Well," she breathes, dropping the glass dish a little roughly on the table causing everyone to jump. "Allison, dear—this might have been something you could have mentioned beforehand."

Allison looks down. "I'm sorry. I didn't think…"

"Matt, luckily I have some salad I made for lunch yesterday. It's not fresh but it's the best I can do under such short circumstances," Victoria offers kindly, ignoring Allison. "Go get the salad, Allison."

Allison slides back and stands, disappearing around the corner wordlessly.

Matt looks like he might pee himself. "That would be fantastic, Mrs. Argent. I'm sorry to put you out of the way like this."

"Oh it's no bother. You like what you like, no matter how strange," Victoria says pleasantly enough, gracefully sitting at the other end of the table and shaking out a napkin to place on her lap.

Stiles drops his fork and it clatters against his plate. He hates when his mother does this. "Excuse me. I'm going to go help Allison." He pushes back and goes looking for his sister.

Allison is leaning over the sink, knuckling the edge as her shoulders shake.

Stiles pauses in the doorway at the sight. The faucet is running and the water is a bit loud but he can still make out the sound of her sniffing and sighing roughly. Her shoulders shake a little more as she presses a hand to her mouth and that's all Stiles can take. He treks over and carefully hugs her from behind.

Allison jumps a little but then she goes boneless, relaxing when she realizes it's Stiles. She releases another shuddering breath and rests her hand over his arm. "I hate when she does that," she whispers. She swallows. "She hates him already. I can tell. It hasn't even b-been five minutes and she already hates him. I really wanted her to—to…" She presses the back of her hand to her mouth as she cries.

Stiles can feel his own eyes water as he turns her to face him so he can hug her properly. He fucking hates the sound of his sister crying—can't bare to see it. He rubs circles into her back and quietly assures her that everything will be okay. She didn't need mom and dad's approval. Sure it helps, but in the end it would be her decision.

"I know," Allison sniffs, and pulls back, flashing a watery smile. She looks up as she swipes the sides of her index fingers along the bottom of her eyes to dry them. "I know," she says again with a sigh. "I'm just going to have to—bare through it or something. Hopefully she'll change her mind about him one day." She sighs again and looks at Stiles. "I really like him."

"I have faith. If not now, she'll definitely come around after you let him knock you up," Stiles jokes. "Just as long as you have a girl and name her Victoria. _Then_ she'll come around."

Allison chuckles softly. "Shut up, Stiles."

"No, seriously, think about. You and Matt keep having kids and name them all Victoria, therefore, perpetuating an army of Victorians for mom to command and conquer the world with! It's a flawless plan because this plan has no flaws!" Stiles says, waving his hands about animatedly.

Allison just shakes her head, turning off the faucet and shakes the streamer so she can dump the salad in the glass dish on the counter.

"Make sure you negotiate with her though—I mean, you should _at least_ get to keep a couple of them. You know what? You should probably get fertility treatments so you can have them in hordes. That way you can screen them all and when they all turn ten, you and Matt should split them up into two teams and have an epic dodge ball tournament and whoever is left standing are the ones that get to stay with mommy and daddy. You can ship the rest of with mom and let her mold her freaky army of Victorians."

Allison laughs and shoves him towards the dining room, looking a lot more at ease and happier.

Stiles counts that as a win and he takes his place beside Scott again. Allison smiles at Matt as she serves him, quietly reassuring him that she's fine.

"So, Scott. Stiles says that you're his co-captain to the lacrosse team," Victoria says, causing everyone to zero in on him.

"Uh—yes. I am," Scott replies as he lifts another forkful of food to his mouth.

"Well, it certainly is nice to hear that a young man like you is taking full advantage of all the recreational activities Beacon Hills has to offer. I bet that's going to look very nice on your college applications," Victoria reasons with a sharp smile.

Stiles sighs quietly and chews his food. "And it begins," he mutters.

Allison smiles at him from across the table.

"Are you screening for colleges yet?" Chris asks from behind his glass of red wine.

"Well—no. But I figure I have plenty of time before I consider what I'll be doing after I graduate," Scott answers.

Chris nods as he sets down his glass, picking up his fork and knife. "You know it's never too early to apply. Shows the admission's panel you're serious about applying and could put you on their watch-list." He cuts at his food. "Allison and Stiles have been applying to colleges since third grade."

"Dad," Allison hisses as she flushes.

"What?" Chris asks, leaning back. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. We've raised you and your brother to be determined. Why should age dictate educationally set goals?" He turns to Scott. "Do you know that Stiles has a slot set for him at Yale, Harvard and Princeton—"

"Oh my God, dad," Stiles whines as he drops his fork out of exasperation.

"—all because of what? He's determined, he's intelligent, and he has the ability to do anything he sets his mind to." Chris goes back to cutting up his food. "He's got a bright future. There really isn't any reason for him to stay here in little ole Beacon Hills once he graduates."

Stiles glares at his dad, perfectly aware of what he's doing. And he hates the forlorn expression that passes over Scott's face. He wants nothing more to throw his plate at his dad's head and hug Scott with promises of never leaving his side, just to see that sunshiny smile again.

Because the truth is—he doesn't really know what he'll do with his life after he graduates.

"I haven't actually decided what I'm going to. Nothing's written in stone," Stiles mutters as he grabs his glass of water and drinks it down as if he wishes it were something stronger.

"Chris, honey, leave the young man alone. He seems more than capable enough to get into any prestigious college of his choice. You never know—Stiles and Scott could end up attending Harvard together," Victoria says as she picks up her glass of wine.

Chris eyes Scott, who squirms at the attention. "Appearances can be deceiving," he murmurs.

Awkward silence follows.

Stiles wants to bang his head into the table, just to put himself out of this misery.

"Matt, actually, has been accepted to Julliard for the performing arts," Allison comments, breaking the silence.

"Oh. How quaint," Victoria merely says. "I never really understood the flair of the dramatic."

Stiles snorts. "You mom? No," he says sarcastically.

Victoria glares at him.

"I'm shutting up," Stiles says, lifting his hands to show he's harmless.

"Well, I, myself, disagree. Acting is a real talent—a special art. I commend Matt for taking up such a complex profession. Julliard is a very prestigious school. Congratulations," Chris extols.

"Thank you, Mr. Argent," Matt says with a smile.

"Just what are the statistics for an individual to make it successfully in the entertainment business?" Victoria asks innocently.

"Mom," Allison hisses.

"No, its okay," Matt says, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Seven point eighteen percent. Not very good odds, but—I'm sure I can work my way in."

"Seven point eighteen. My—now that _is_ a steep slope," Victoria comments, lifting a forkful of food to her mouth and chewing. "Certainly not acceptable odds to find means to provide for one's family."

"Can we be excused?" Allison says suddenly.

Victoria smiles coldly with a nod. "It was nice meeting you, Matt," she says with a small wave.

Matt glances at her and nods quietly, not protesting when Allison grabs his hand and stomps off. She makes it a point to slam the door when they reach her room.

Victoria continues to eat as though she doesn't notice.

"Well," Stiles says, just because he has to. "That was awkward."

Victoria chews carefully as she looks at him briefly. She swallows and turns her attention to Scott. "Scott, sweetheart, would you like another helping?" she asks and stands, going to serve him again, regardless of his answer.

"Uh—sure. Thanks, Mrs. Argent," Scott says with a polite smile, leaning back to give her room.

"Oh it's really no problem at all," Victoria says and ruffles, fucking _ruffles_ , Scott's hair before patting him gently. "And please—call me Victoria."

Scott beams with a nod.

Stiles feels like he's being cleverly pranked. His mother never likes any of his boyfriends or girlfriends. But she just made physical contact with Scott and asked him to call her by her first name—a pure sign of her approval.

Or maybe a sign of the apocalypse.

What the ever–living fuck?

"You'll never guess who called me today," Chris says to his wife. "Anthony Quinn."

Stiles stiffens.

No.

Just—just—no.

"Says that he and his wife have been talking for a while now about changing locations," Chris says casually. "They've gotten al little tired of Alaska. I just so happened to mention that we migrated down here and suggested he do the same."

No fucking way.

"Next thing I know, he's telling me he's bought out the house across the street from us. They should be moving in any day now," Chris continues.

Stiles tightens his grip around his fork as his heart thumps painfully in his chest. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see the concerned look Scott is sending him.

"Stiles…you remember their son Boyd right?" Chris asks with a cheerful smile. "Just when was the last time you two talked?"

Stiles bites down on his bottom lip to keep from saying anything depraved to his dad.

Of course he fucking remembers Boyd. Of _course._

"Well, in any case, it'll be good for the two of you to catch up. Maybe you can take him under your wings once he comes. Show him around, things like that," Chris says.

Stiles—

Stiles is going to fucking—

He's going to fucking lose it.

He's—

Warm fingers curl between his own and Stiles pauses, glancing over to Scott who is smiling at him softly. Stiles glances down at their joined hands and he smiles back.

"Well that will be wonderful," Victoria says suddenly. "I've been missing Rochelle like crazy. It'll be nice to have her in reach. You know she really does make the best peach cobbler. But Genim, sweetheart, don't let Boyd steal you away from Scott."

"Can we be excused? Scott's got to get going soon," Stiles says, standing with Scott.

Victoria nods with a genuine smile. "Scott, dear, you really must join us again. I look forward to seeing more of you."

"Oh—yes. Thanks again, Mrs. Argent. I really enjoyed the meal," Scott replies.

"Any time. Again, call me Victoria."

Stiles rolls his eyes and tugs Scott towards the front door.

"It was nice meeting you too, Mr. Argent," Scott calls out.

Chris, kindly, does not reply.

Stiles shuts the door behind them as they step out into the night air. He shudders a bit at the cold and turns to face Scott fully. "Sorry about my dad and that whole—awkward situation between my sister and my mom. I'm sure that was the worst family dinner you've experienced."

"No," Scott admits. "Not the worst." He shifts closer to Stiles. "I don't think anything will top the dinner when my mom and dad sat Isaac and me down to tell us they were getting a divorce. And then having to watch them argue over whose fault it was because I was stupid enough to ask why."

Stiles can hear the sadness in his voice. He tangles their fingers together again. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Scott shrugs as he looks off into the distance. "I think what makes it so bad is that I screamed at my dad that I hated him. And then having to find out the next day that he was in a serious collision. Dead on impact." He exhales a shuddering breath. "I always wish I could take it back. Could have—I don't know—said something like, 'I love you' or, 'you're important to me'. But instead, I can't help but to think that all he could hear as he died was me telling him that I hated him."

Stiles squeezes their fingers together, wishing he could offer some words of comfort, but he doesn't know what to say. He's never experienced that kind of loss before. He wouldn't wish that on himself, or anyone else for that matter.

"Here, let's sit over there," Stiles says, leading him over to the porch steps so they could sit down. Stiles sits on the top step while Scott sits between his legs on the third step. He leans back into him. Stiles wraps his arms around Scott and presses their cheeks together. "You're probably wondering why I was freaking out in there."

"Just a little," Scott admits as he strokes his fingers up and down Stiles's forearm.

"Well," Stiles says with a sigh. "Anthony Quinn is my dad's former boss and mentor—which I should also mention that my dad sells firearms for a living. Anyway," he sighs. "Mr. and Mrs. Quinn have a son that's my age—an only son, whose name is Boyd. Boyd is a special kind of person. I can't really describe him—you'll have to meet him, which I kind of hope you don't. See, the thing is that when we were younger, his family and my family always moved around with each other. The first time I met Boyd was in kindergarten and he dumped finger-paint all over my head just because I wouldn't talk to him."

"Sounds like he liked you," Scott snickers.

"Yeah, well, that's what his dad and my dad said whenever I complained about how much Boyd kept picking on me. Took him six years to actually admit it to me. Then he started being nicer," Stiles explains. "Nice, but not any less aggressive with me. I mean—Boyd's always gone after what he wants, it's his thing. He can be cocky and overbearing but he has his sweet moments. He was the only constant friend I had and I started to like him back. We dated in seventh grade all the way up to our freshmen year of high school. And my dad was loving it by the way—he always really liked Boyd. My dad barely approves of anybody but he approved Boyd. Said he saw real potential in his future and that he knew Boyd would one day take up his dad's line of work with the same grace his father had. Ever since we broke up, no one's quite lived up to his expectations."

"Well why'd you guys break up?" Scott asks curiously as he turns his head to peer at Stiles.

Stiles lowers his head and presses his mouth to Scott's shoulder. Scott doesn't push, he just continues to stroke his fingers gently up and down Stiles's arm.

"We wanted different things," Stiles mumbles against the fabric of Scott's shirt. "We grew up and I felt like we were too young to be so serious. Boyd disagreed of course. He felt like we belonged together but—I just didn't feel like that. Both our dads were disappointed when I broke up with him. I had to beg my dad to move somewhere they wouldn't because otherwise, I knew Boyd would keep pushing me to get back together with him. I haven't seen him since. I kind of feel like with them coming down here, my dad's trying to set me up just because he's afraid I might be serious about you."

Scott smiles. "And we definitely wouldn't that," he jokes.

Stiles scoffs and cuffs him on the back of his head, standing to his feet. "Anyway—I wanted to kind of warn you beforehand. Boyd can be—well he's always been the jealous type and he might harass you when he finds out we're together."

"I think I can take him," Scott says confidently.

"Yeah I know that. I've seen what you can do out on the lacrosse fields. I'm asking _you_ not to hurt _him._ Unless he like really deserves it, then by all means. Snap a leg or two. He'll get the point," Stiles says with a grin.

Scott hooks his fingers in Stiles's belt loops and uses them to reel him in. Stiles comes easily and he leans down when Scott leans up, lips meeting gently. He groans when Scott's tongue flicks out over his bottom lip teasingly.

"I have to go," Scott says, stepping back and Stiles _does not_ pout. Scott smiles, steps in again and kisses him with the same amount of underlying desire and yearning Stiles gives to him.

Ten minutes later, Scott still hasn't left and Stiles is sucking greedily on his tongue, fingers twisted in Scott's hair like he has no intention of letting go. They're bodies are flushed together and Stiles is pretty sure his hard-on from earlier has come back with a vengeance.

"Stiles," Scott groans, half chastising and half longing. "I really have to go."

Stiles is trying to suck a mark in Scott's neck and he thought he was doing a pretty good job until Scott opened his mouth and spoke in _coherent_ sentences.

"Really, as much as I like what you're doing," Scott eases Stiles away. "My mom's expecting me."

"Right," Stiles sighs. His lips curl as he glances down. "You, uh, might want to take care of that first."

Scott looks down and flushes.

Stiles laughs and adjusts himself purposefully, just to see his blush deepen and to be a hypocrite as well.

It works.

"Damn it, Stiles," Scott groans, carding his fingers through his hair, looking torn.

"Stop looking at me that," Stiles warns. "Or I'll take _myself_ up on my promise earlier and drop to my knees right here."

"I—uh—leaving!" Scott squeaks, eyes wide. He stumbles over to his bike before he stumbles onto his bike. "See you at school!"

Stiles just watches him go with a grin before he turns in for the night.

He's going to let Scott slide this one time.

But next time—

Well that just goes without saying.

888

Isaac glances at the front door as he settles down on the couch, grabbing the remote off the coffee table. He turns on the TV as he chews on his fingernails, flipping through channels.

"Figures," he mutters, flipping quickly. "Nothing on."

_Buzz. Buzz. Buzz._

Isaac fishes for his phone in his pockets.

_Going home. Bout fucking time too. Was about to go insane. I hate hospitals. Oh, and I'm fine by the way, if Scott cares to even know. –Erica_

Isaac snorts and types out a reply.

_I hate you in hospitals. You know Scott. His head's so far up Stiles's ass, they're like one person or something. I'm happy you're alright. In fact, I'm brimming with rose-colored joy. :) –Isaac_

Scott comes ambling through the door just as Isaac sends the message off. "Hey," he says.

"Hey," Isaac returns and twists his head to look at him. "So, judging by the dopey grin on your face, things went well with Stiles?"

Scott's eyes gleam and his grin widens into a smile.

Isaac rolls his eyes. "I'll take that for the fucking affirmation it is," he mutters and turns back to the TV.

"Where's my mom?" Scott asks as he hops over the back of the couch and plops down beside Isaac.

"She had to go back out. They got a code one-eighty-seven down at the video store," he explains.

Scott frowns. "One-eighty-seven?"

"Homicide."

"Dude, how do you know any of this stuff?" Scott asks as he swipes the remote from Isaac.

"Maybe because your mom is the sheriff and I actually pay attention to things. There are things going on outside of Stiles," Isaac quips.

Scott frowns and Isaac swears he looks skeptical, which kind of makes him want to punch his surrogate brother in the face.

"Look, that doesn't matter," Isaac says, snatching the remote back and turning off the TV. "They let Derek go."

"What?" Scott whips his head so fast, Isaac swears that he can almost feel it in his own neck. "What do you mean they let him go? Did they not see the dead body you guys dug up?"

"Yes. I'm sure they took nice pictures too, but it doesn't matter because when the forensics came back, they found nothing but animal hair. Derek—not an animal. As far as they know anyway."

Scott stands and kicks at the leg of the coffee table. Isaac figures he must be holding back since the table doesn't go flying through the air towards the wall.

 _He's getting better with his control_ , Isaac thinks.

"That's not even the worse part," he continues. "Since we unearthed the other half of the body for them, they were able to do a full analysis of the remains. That Jane Doe, is actually Laura Hale."

"Derek's sister…" Scott whispers as he falls back down to the couch.

"Still not the worst part," Isaac adds as he does the same. "So before your mom pulled me out, I had a little chat with Derek."

"You talked to him?"

"He was handcuffed and sitting powerlessly in the back of a cop car. Of course I interrogated him," Isaac says. "I asked him if he killed her. He said we should be more worried about the Alpha and not what's in his backyard. He says the Alpha's going to create problems for you."

"What kind of problems?"

"He wouldn't tell me. He just said that he's going to need your help figuring out who the Alpha is. He wants you to skip school for a couple of days. Goes without saying that he knew he'd be released by now," Isaac says.

Scott frowns. "I'm not doing that. I don't want to have anything to do with him. The Alpha doesn't have anything to do with me anyway," he reasons.

"You sure about that?"

Isaac and Scott jump to their feet, lifting their fists simultaneously in a defensive stance.

Derek just stares at them blankly from the top of the stairs.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Isaac demands, dropping his hands as Scott does the same.

"Your window was open," Derek merely replies. Like it was perfectly acceptable to break in through an open window.

"Wait—no it wasn't," Isaac says.

Derek shrugs and carefully walks down the steps.

Scott's wavering in between shifting and not shifting. "What are you doing here, Derek?" he hisses.

"You've got just as much to do with the Alpha as I do. Him biting you just isn't the end of it. It wasn't a mistake either. He's trying to build a pack—there's strength in numbers. He wants you, Scott. And he's not going to stop until he gets you," Derek warns as he stops short of the couch, allowing them the courtesy of letting the couch be a divider.

Isaac knows that if Derek wanted, he could rip the couch to ribbons and come after them anyway.

"He killed my sister and he's killed someone else tonight. And he'll kill again, risking exposure for all of us," Derek says.

"What do you want me to do?" Scott says quietly.

"You're the closest connection we've got to him. The bite links you together and you'd know better than I would how to find him," Derek says. "There was another murder tonight—"

"Holy shit. The video store. That was him wasn't it?" Isaac interjects.

Derek glares but curtly says, "Yes." He looks to Scott. "You're mother was questioning a girl who'd seen it happen. Someone named Lydia. Do you know who that is?"

"Uh—not entirely but yeah," Scott says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Why? You want me to talk to her or something?"

"Ask her about what happened. Use your senses when you do—if she sweats, if her heartbeat speeds up for any reason, she's lying." He glances around before he continues, "She said she drove to the video store alone and that she hadn't actually gotten out of her car before the windows busted loose and whatever was inside got out. She said she didn't see much of anything, that it was too dark." He says. His eyebrows are bunched together thoughtfully. "She was lying. Your mother couldn't tell while she questioned her, but I could."

"What exactly did she lie about?"

Derek turns and heads for the door. "She wasn't alone."

888

The cab pulls to a stop outside of Erica's house and she's jolted from her thoughts.

"How much?" she asks, tucking her bushy hair behind her ears before she fishes for her wallet in her purse.

The guy glances at her through the rearview. "Nothing—if you make it worth my while." His eyebrows jump suggestively as he leers, licking at his lips.

Erica makes a disgusted face before she throws a twenty at him and scoots out of the car, slamming the door shut behind her.

"Bitch!" he shouts and drives off.

Erica bends down and grabs a rock, throwing it after him. "Asshole!"

The rock misses by a long shot.

Erica yanks her purse close as she stomps up the porch steps to the front door. She blows a strand of hair from her face as she goes hunting for her keys in her purse.

A twig snaps in the distance.

Erica freezes, glancing over her shoulder as the wind blows her hair out of her face. The street is lit by dimmed lamps, and even from her angle of sight of the cozy little cul-de-sac, she doesn't see much of anyone else. Yet, that doesn't deter the feeling that she is being watched.

Erica swallows and takes a steady breath. It would do no good to have to go back to the hospital because she had another seizure caused by a panic attack. She turns away and squints her eyes as she peers into her purse, trying to make out the outline of her keys.

A low growl, which sounds frighteningly like that of a dog, echoes in her ears.

Erica feels her body quiver as she slowly turns. "Scott?" she whispers, clutching her bag closer. Her eyes frantically search the street, the cars and the yards but she doesn't see anything.

The growl grows more menacing.

Erica looks around and spots a pair of glowing red eyes in the distance. She slams back against the door in fright, hyperventilating as her heart thumps painfully against her ribcage. She spins around and pounds on the door with an open fist. "Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Ah—" She falls forward as the door suddenly whips open. Erica pants as her mother, donned in a yellow bathrobe with a silk nightgown underneath and aqua green hair curlers messily set in her hair, comes into Erica's peripheral.

"Jesus fucking Christ, girl. You're gonna wake the neighbors with all that racket," her mother snaps, shoving a lit cigarette between her lips. The tip glows orange as she sucks in deeply, holding it and then blowing it out the side of her mouth. She scratches her eyebrow as she stares down at Erica. "Well? You gonna come in or you just gonna lay in the doorway all day?" She flicks her cigarette out onto the porch.

Erica sits up before standing to her feet. She looks out into the street but she can't see the red eyes anymore.

Her mom slams the door shut as she grumbles and makes her way back to her ratty loveseat. She falls back into it with grunt, picking up the half-full beer bottle off the coffee table and takes a deep swallow.

Erica hikes up her purse on her shoulder.

Her mom burps as she sets the (now empty) beer bottle down and picks up the remote, shamelessly scratching her crotch. "Where the hell you been anyway?" she asks, eyes glued firmly to the TV.

"I had another seizure. Had to go to the hospital," Erica says quietly. "I called home yesterday but no one picked up."

Her mom glances at her briefly before shaking out a single cigarette from the carton she kept in the pocket of her robe. "Thought you were over that shit already," she says as she shoves the cigarette between her lips and then gropes herself for a lighter. _Flick-flick-flick_ and she's lighting the tip of the cigarette, taking a deep inhale. She exhales with a sigh as looks at Erica. "Do you know how expensive them goddamn hospitals are? You go and do your whole squirmin' worm dance, slob and piss yourself, and you probably do it for attention too. Putting yourself back in the hospital God knows how many times, and who's gonna pay for it, hm?"

"You don't pay for anything," Erica says quietly. "I get assistance from the state."

"Damn right I don't pay for anything. Not my business to pay. You should get the state to assist you with pullin' your weight around here," her mom says before taking another puff of her cigarette. "Your daddy and I are gettin' _real_ tired of having to feed you when all you do is nothin'."

Erica fidgets and hikes her purse up higher on her shoulder.

"I mean Jesus fucking Christ, all I ask from you is that you clean up and make us some food and you can't even do that. Me and Joe had to order some pizza last night because you weren't here to make dinner. I fuckin' hate pizza," she complains, picking up the remote again and flipping through the channels.

"I'm sorry," Erica says, tightening her hands into fists.

"Just go to your room. I'm tired of lookin' at you," her mother says.

Erica wanders over to the stairs and up them, walking until she reaches the end of the hall where her room is. She quietly shuts the door behind her, letting her purse slide down her arm and onto the floor. She doesn't bother turning on the light as she walks to her bed and flops backwards.

She stares up at the ceiling where she has cut out glow-in-the-dark stars and moon. Her dad and mom had put them up there themselves, knowing how much she loved astrology, back when she was nine. Back when they had still cared about her. Back when they treated her like she was their world. Like she was an actual person. But that was before they found out she was epileptic.

Erica sighs and turns onto her side, glancing at the lady-bug themed picture frame on her nightstand. She reaches out and grabs it, rolling onto her back again as she eyes it.

It's of her, Scott and Isaac. They're all thirteen and wearing their royal blue cap and gowns for their eighth grade graduation. Scott's in the middle with his arms slung over her and Isaac's shoulders. She's trying to hide her smile away behind her hand but Scott's beaming while Isaac smirks, giving the camera a thumbs up.

Erica smiles as she traces a finger down Scott's face. Scott's smile has always been infectious.

She sighs and puts the picture back, sitting up so she can pull her grey sweatshirt off and toss it along with the rest in the hamper sitting under her window. She throws her legs over the edge of her bed and she reaches behind herself to unstrap her bra and tosses that over her shoulder. She stands and goes to her dresser, pulling it open and grabbing a tank top, sliding it on. She shoves the drawer shut and walks to her work desk, reaching under for the shoebox she keeps behind her mini trash bin.

Erica pushes her laptop back and plops the box down, flicking off the top and peering inside. She chews on her bottom lip as she pulls out the black candle and tarot reading cards. She grabs her notebook and tears out a single piece of paper. She grabs a sowing needle from her sowing box on the other end of the desk. She uses it to prick her index finger, squeezing until a fair amount of blood surfaced. She then uses her blood to draw a five-pointed star across the paper, then she smears a circle around it.

Erica lifts her injured finger to her mouth, suckling on it as she flattens the paper against her desk, making sure the top of the star faced north. Then she puts the black candle on top of the star. She releases her finger with a wet pop and fishes for her matches in the pockets of her jeans. She strikes the match and then proceeds to light the black candle, shaking the match to extinguish it.

She flicks it in the garbage before grabbing the deck of tarot cards, shuffling them exactly seven times before she places it at the edge of the paper. Then she straightens in her seat, scooting forward to get closer as she lays her palms flat against the desk. She closes her eyes and exhales carefully, clearing her mind.

The flame of the black candle flickers and flickers and flickers until it points towards Erica.

Erica lifts her hand, moving it carefully over the cards and just lets her hand stay suspended in the air above them. Suddenly, all the windows in her room slam open and the wind blows in. Eyes still closed, she pulls her hand back before lifting them both up, fanning out her fingers as she chants quickly and quietly.

The cards begin to levitate, separating one by one before they start flying around her hands.

Erica's eyes whip open but nothing but the white of her eyes can be seen. She smirks. Chants faster, voice splitting into four different sets of pitches.

The wind roars in her room and the house gives one brief shudder.

Then, everything goes still—frozen—as if someone had pressed pause.

Erica's eyelids flutter before closing. She blinks as the flame of the black candle goes out and all the cards fall to the floor.

Save the one that's wedged between her middle fingers.

Erica blinks again, lowering her hands and plucking the card free, turning it over to look at the picture printed on the other side. She frowns as she studies it, running her eyes up and down, soaking in every detail. Finally she just lifts her eyes and stares blankly at the wall, eyebrows furrowed.

"Stiles _…_ "

888

Stiles yawns as he lifts his foot onto the edge of the bench before leaning forward to tie the laces of his cleats. It's too damn early. The sun isn't even up yet. Personally, he thought Coach Finstock was going overboard making them meet at six am on a Monday morning just because their first game was this Wednesday.

"You look like you're going to fall asleep on your feet."

Stiles glances up and drops his foot to the grass.

Scott's standing on the other side of the bench, sporting his sunshiny smile.

"Scott, I'm not gonna lie," Stiles says as he wiggles his fingers into his gloves. "I kind of want to cry. Or die. I'd even settle for a mild concussion. Anything that will get me ten minutes of blissful sleep."

Scott snickers.

"Can you believe we have practice this afternoon too?" Stiles says, dying a little on the inside at the thought of it. There is a hundred percent chance he's going to pass out from exhaustion in every class.

"Why are you so tired anyway?" Scott asks, eyeing him as he straddles the bench.

Stiles looks off into the distance, watching as their other teammates saunter across the field like a bunch of sleep-deprived zombies. "It's you're fault actually," he replies casually. "After I cleaned my room, I went to go put my Nintendo away but I accidentally turned it on. It opened up to the level you left off in so I figured I'd just see what it was all about. Next thing I know, it's five in the morning and I have to be here."

"You can't blame me for that," Scott laughs.

"Are you kidding? Yes I can. Look, watch. This is me blaming you." Stiles lifts his gloved hand to his chin and then frowns thoughtfully. "And then, in my head, I'm totally like this," he says, never changing his pose. "Hm—I don't know why—but somehow this is all Scott's fault."

"Oh it's all Scott's fault?" Scott says skeptically.

"Yup."

"So it has nothing to do with the fact that at anytime you could have put the game down and gone to sleep?" Scott counters smartly.

Stiles pretends to think about it. "Nah—nope. I'm not seeing a connection. Four out of five scientists say it's Scott's fault."

"I like number five then," Scott decides as he stands and crowds in close.

"Oh yeah?" Stiles grins as Scott leans in. "You would. Spoiler alert—you're the fifth scientist."

Scott pauses, just inches away from kissing Stiles, to say, "I think you mean plot twist."

Stiles fidgets. "Whatever, just kiss me," he mutters and tugs Scott in by his jersey.

"Bossy," Scott jokes before he kisses him.

Stiles sighs, awareness creeping into his senses. It's ridiculous how it seems that Scott's become like a surrogate cup of coffee for him. He feels awake now, jitters and energy nipping at his fingertips and slipping along the edge of his mind. He opens up easily when Scott dips his tongue in languidly, and the fact that they have all this stupid gear on irritates the fuck out of him. He's ready to tear off his gloves just so he can tangle his fingers up in Scott's hair.

"Argent! McCall! Break it up!" Coach yells as he ambles his way over. " _Jesus_."

Stiles steps back and licks at his lips, taking private satisfaction at the way Scott frowns in disappointment before watching his tongue longingly. "Sorry, Coach," he says.

Scott just grunts and plops down on the bench.

"No your not. So don't pretend," Coach quips. "As long as you keep it on the sidelines and not in the game, I don't care either way. You know Danny's gay too right? Good-looking kid. Maybe you three can get together and—"

Stiles and Scott stare at him.

"Never mind," Coach says. "You boys ready to take care of business?"

"I was before you interrupted," Scott mutters and Stiles whacks him on the side of his head.

"What was that?" Coach says.

"He said yes," Stiles lies.

"Great. Fantastic. I really need you guys to whip the rest of the team into shape, because to be honest with you—they suck." Coach claps them both of the shoulders. "Oh and one more thing. We've got a transfer who wants to tryout. Alright with you?"

"But wouldn't that mean we'd have to bench an extra person. We've already decided on who's making first string," Scott says.

"Yeah, Coach. Wouldn't be fair to make any exceptions," Stiles adds.

"Not even for an old friend?"

They all turn towards the source of the voice.

A six-foot, broad shoulder individual, already in uniform, treks over to them and pulls off his helmet.

Stiles feels his stomach drop. He'd recognize that cocky smirk anywhere. "Boyd…"

"Long time no see, Stiles." Boyd's chocolate eyes twinkle with amusement.

"Shit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bare with me guys. It gets better.


	4. Chapter 4

_The greatest conflicts are not between two people but between one person and himself._

— **Garth Brooks**

888

Boyd's gotten taller. Like _way_ taller. Not that he wasn't tall before, but—

Mother of God.

The guy is a fucking skyscraper now.

And built.

 _Really_ built.

Like a brick house.

Or wait. No.

Like the fucking factory that makes brick houses.

He's got a stronger looking jaw, which does wonders for drawing attention to his obnoxiously supple lips. Shit. Stiles thought he had some nice lips but Boyd—

Goddamn Boyd was giving him a run for his money.

In addition to looking better than when Stiles last saw him, his head looks newly shaven. Boyd used to have this thing about braids—or, he'd call them something like cornrows. Stiles didn't exactly understand the concept, possibly because he was white. All Stiles knew was that he always loved tugging at the ends of them when they made out. While they dated, Boyd always liked to tease him about that fact.

But you know who wasn't so amused? Boyd's mom, Rochelle.

She liked Stiles fine enough, but she just didn't like him with her son.

Stiles doesn't think she was intentionally being close-minded about their relationship. Boyd had once explained to him that his mother, as well as the rest of her family, originated from a tribe in Uganda. A tribe of tightly traditional Ugandans who didn't believe in marrying outside of said tribe. Rochelle, much like her sisters and brothers, and forefathers before her, married within her tribe. This is what she had wanted for Boyd. This is why she had disliked Stiles's involvement with her son.

Boyd hadn't cared. He wanted what he wanted. And what he had wanted was Stiles, since day one.

Stiles kind of hopes that their short time apart has given Boyd some perspective.

Boyd's eyes roam freely over him as his smirk grows.

"Shit," Stiles says, again. He'd recognize that look anywhere.

So much for perspective.

Coach shoves a piece of gum in his mouth. "Well is everyone going to stand here gawking at each other or are we going to do this thing?" he asks, oblivious to the tension.

"Not. Absolutely not," Stiles says instantly, scratching the back of his head and cursing because it's not possible with the gloves.

Boyd shifts his weight, looking off to the side with a smirk. His whole physique screams, _I can be patient, but in the end I'm getting my way._

Cocky asshole.

"Let me rephrase that," Coach says, smacking on his gum. "McCall and Quinn—one on one. Out on the field. Go."

Stiles doesn't understand how everything goes from bad to worse in just the span of fifteen seconds.

This is a crisis.

A crisis!

"Sure thing, Coach," Boyd says, sliding on his helmet again and looking way too happy to do such. He treks out towards the middle of the field but not without purposefully brushing past Stiles along the way. "Wish me luck, Gem."

Scott's on his feet in a second.

Stiles quickly reaches out and puts his hands on Scott's shoulders to steady him. "Hey—don't let him get to you. That's what he does. That's how he wins," he warns. He drops his hands before grabbing Scott by the arm and dragging him out of Coach's hearing range. "Look, just—don't tear his head off okay? Just make him look bad—athletically."

"I can do that," Scott growls, glaring over at Boyd, who's staring right back.

Stiles is a little worried. "Scott. I'm not giving you permission to do anything to get yourself expelled. You know that right? Murder, bad. Scott no murder."

"Yeah, whatever, I understand," Scott says quickly, still staring at Boyd like he's just going to do the exact opposite anyway.

"McCall! Get out there!" Coach yells impatiently.

Scott doesn't hesitate to do such. He roughly swipes his helmet off the bench and yanks it on, all but prowling out onto the field towards Boyd with strong malevolent intent.

"Aw crap," Stiles mutters. "This is not going to be good," he says, walking over to Coach and standing by him.

"Boy, you can just feel that energy," Coach praises obliviously, grinding his fist into his open hand. "I mean look at those two. This is going to be exciting, I can feel it." He smiles before he notices the rest of the team crowding around too. "Ey! This isn't a free show. The rest of you run laps around the field."

An explosion of groans bursts forth from every single player as they reluctantly begin a group jog.

Stiles turns to do such as well.

" _Not_ you, Argent," Coach says, fisting his jersey and yanking him back. "I need a second pair of eyes for this. You and I are going to collectively determine whether this kid's got what it takes."

Stiles opens his mouth and struggles to find the right words to explain why letting Boyd join the team is a very bad idea. He can't. He's literally got nothing, and he's pretty sure Coach wouldn't give a rat's ass about the fact that they used to date. In the end he just clamps his mouth shut and frowns.

"Alright. Here's the deal!" Coach yells, cupping his hands around his mouth to make his voice louder. "All you need to do Quinn, is to make a goal, just one goal, in the span of two minutes—and I will be timing." He holds up the timer as if to give proof. "If you can manage that, then you can have the pleasure of calling yourself a member of this team! On my mark." He lifts his whistle and blows it.

Stiles yanks his gloves off and shoves them under his left arm as he plops back on the bench, bouncing his leg and chewing his nails nervously.

Scott scoops the ball up first, naturally, and twists around Boyd towards his goal. He gets a running sprint down the field but Boyd's right on his tail.

Boyd manages to catch up and shove him over, making Scott drop the ball and fumble to the ground. Boyd doesn't hesitate to scoop the ball up.

He doesn't move any further than that though.

He just stays right where he is and hurls the ball all the way to the other goal at the other end of the field.

And _makes_ it.

Stiles feels his jaw drop.

 _Everyone's_ jaw drops.

Collectively there is a simultaneous jaw drop of epic proportion.

The team stops jogging, and they all end up bumping into each other like a bunch of human dominoes while they stare at Boyd like he's the second coming.

Even Coach's mouth is hanging so wide open that his gum falls out.

Boyd yanks off his helmet and gives a goofily pleased closed-mouth smile.

"Sweet Baby Jesus!" Coach finally says, snapping out of his stupor. He looks like he doesn't know what to do with himself for a moment before he shakes his head. "Can you do that again?"

"Sure," Boyd replies with a shrug. "I can even do it blindfolded if you wanted."

Coach laughs loudly and claps his hands together. "No, no. I'm sold. Welcome to the team, Boyd! I'm first lining you because I'd have to be crazy not to. And trust me—I'm crazy, but not insane."

The rest of the team crowds around Boyd, patting him on the back and muttering excitedly about how impressed they are.

Boyd, of course, takes it all in stride with his usual haughty attitude. He'd surely give Jackson a run for his money.

The worst part about it is that Stiles is grudgingly impressed too.

"Where the hell did McCall go?" Coach asks as he glances around.

Stiles blinks and looks too. There's no sign of him anywhere, save a single glove in the spot where he fell down at earlier.

"I'm—going to go see if he's in the locker room," Stiles says.

Coach dismisses him with a wave, already making his way over to Boyd.

Stiles rolls his eyes and jogs in the direction of the school. It doesn't take him long to reach the locker rooms.

"Scott?" he calls out as he pushes the door open and peers around. He glances around, walking to Coach's office and leaning in. "Scotty…"

It's empty.

Stiles frowns and walks along the lockers, peering down every aisle, seeing nothing but scattered gym bags and shoes and miscellaneous lacrosse equipment.

The only area he can think to look in is the showers. But when he goes to the showers there's still no Scott.

Stiles sighs and rubs at the crown of his head as his eyes sweep the floor. He frowns when his gaze settles on a glove resting at the base of the wall. He walks forward and crouches down, picking it up and turning it over. On the wrist, in black marker, it reads: **McCall**.

Stiles frowns and stands, pausing when he squints his eyes at the wall. There are three distinct claw marks slashed into the white stone. He hesitantly reaches out and traces his fingers over them. The claw marks are gouged deep, as if it had been done out of anger, and as he glances up, he notices the open window.

888

"Maybe he wasn't feeling well," Allison reasons as they set their trays down at the end of the lunch table. She sits across from him, using her fingers to comb her hair up into a bun before she clips it off.

"Yeah, maybe," Stiles says, unconvinced. Scott had seemed perfectly fine this morning, all wide-eyed and cheerful. How do you just suddenly get sick? "I'm just getting _real_ tired of his disappearing acts." He shakes out a ketchup packet for his curly fries. "I had to run the team through all the drills and plays by _myself_ ," he complained. "Coach was no help either. He was too busy mooning over Boyd like he was a Godsend."

It's true. Coach had absolutely fawned over Boyd, kidnapping him and cornering him at the edge of the field as they talked about only God knows what. Stiles just knows that every time he looked over, they were both laughing and having the time of their lives while the rest of them were working themselves to the bone in preparation for this week's game.

Goddamn Boyd.

Allison looks at him with sympathy as she pokes at her chicken salad. "I can't believe Boyd's back," she says. "I'm sure dad's just loving that."

"Can we not talk about Boyd please?"

"You're the one that brought it up, you dork."

"Well, yeah but—you know." Stiles shrugs. "The guy is like a pimple that wont go away. An attractively cocky pimple that's gotten better looking since the last time I saw him—which isn't fair by the way—and looks at me like he wants to rip my clothes to shreds and—I'm just going to stop that thought while I'm ahead," he says, jamming a handful of curly fries into his mouth. "Do you know he's in every single one of my classes?"

Allison blinks at him in surprise as she chews and squeezes more ranch dressing over her salad.

"Oh yeah. Couldn't even make this up even if I tried. Coincidence?" Stiles says as he lifts a finger and swipes it down. "I think not. This has his dad and my dad written all over it."

"You really think so?" Allison asks. "That's a little much. You sound kind of paranoid."

"I wouldn't put it past them. They're trying to do that thing you used to do with your Barbie dolls when you forcibly mashed their heads together and said, ' _Okay, now kiss!'_ , only it's me and Boyd they're trying to force together," Stiles counters confidently. "But enough about that. Back to Scott. Who is still missing—leaving me properly disgruntled and worried. I've gotten zero texts and zero replies to my texts. Just saying."

"He's probably embarrassed cause I had to spank that ass out on the field this morning," Boyd reasons as he plops down right beside Stiles.

Stiles, who had been reaching for his milk carton at the time, grips it tightly, causing it to bust open and a gushing waterfall of chocolate milk spurts down his hand.

"Oh! Oh wow. Stiles," Allison gasps as she quickly tosses a couple of napkins at him.

Stiles gives her a curt thanks as he uses them to dry his hands.

"My bad, Gem. Didn't mean to scare you," Boyd apologizes with a smirk, pressing himself into Stiles's side. "You've been really uptight lately. When's the last time you had sex?"

Stiles chokes on his own spit and is only seconds from biting down on his tongue. Or stabbing Boyd in the eye. Most likely that last one.

"You get so cranky when you go so long without sex," Boyd continues, conversationally. He looks over at Allison as he says, "I remember when he used to fuss at me. He'd fuss and fuss until finally I grabbed his ass and took him to bed." Boyd smirks and shakes his eyebrows suggestively. "He didn't fuss no more after that."

Allison flushes, looking mortified enough for the both of them but then she bursts out in giggles, which ruins it.

Traitor.

"Do you have no concept of privacy or personal space?" Stiles hisses. He grits his teeth when Boyd drapes an arm over his shoulders. "Boyd…"

"So tell me about Scott," Boyd says casually as he steals a few of Stiles's fries. "He's kind of—small. Pushover. Doesn't seem your type."

"And you'd know my type?" Stiles snipes, slapping Boyd's hand away when he makes another reach for his food. He absolutely does not acknowledge the fact that Boyd is wearing some very nice smelling cologne.

"You forget, we dated. I know all about you," Boyd counters confidently. He quickly steals another fry.

"Kind of hard to forget, Boyd. You're not exactly the kind of the person who _wouldn't_ leave a long-lasting impression," Stiles says, pushing Boyd's hand from his tray and shrugging off the arm on his shoulders. "And who Scott is would be none of your business. I don't care what your dad or what my dad said and—oh my God, you have your own food, stop eating mine!"

Boyd just chuckles and winks, but he leaves Stiles's food alone to devour his own. It's like Grammar School all over again. Boyd the Bully is picking on Stiles just because he has the mindset of a caveman who can't properly express his infatuation over an individual.

"Oh, before I forget," Allison says suddenly, perking up immensely. "You will never guess who dropped in this morning."

"If it wasn't Selena Gomez or John Hamm, I don't even care," Stiles says as he pops a chicken nugget in his mouth.

"John Hamm?" Allison questions as her face scrunches up adorably with her confusion.

"It's the jawline," Boyd explains taking a massive bite from his _fourth_ cheeseburger. "Gem's got a thing for perfect jawlines," and he wriggles his eyebrows suggestively, stroking at his own jawline as he smirks.

Stiles flushes and scowls. "Shut up—stop pretending you still know me. And stop calling me Gem! We aren't dating so you don't get to use that nickname anymore. It's _Stiles_." And to emphasize his point, he stabs his finger at Boyd's face sternly.

Boyd playfully nips at it.

Stiles snatches his hand back with a glare and scoots as far away as he can, which isn't far since they're already at the end of the lunch table.

"Yeah—anyway," Allison says. "The answer's Aunt Kate! She's going to be staying with us for a while." Then she makes this dopey excited face that kind of makes her look like a cartoon character.

"Oh. Great," Stiles mutters, not even masking his disappointment.

"Stiles," Allison says, leaning across the table so she can push at Stiles's shoulder. "I don't know what you have against Aunt Kate but—"

"Maybe it's because she has no soul? Yeah. She has no soul. She is a soulless woman, and to be absolutely truthful with you—I think she eats the hearts of men _and_ a select set of children," Stiles says around a mouthful of chicken nuggets. "She snacks on babies too. _Newborn_ babies."

Allison makes a face, and it's either because of what he's saying or how he's eating.

"Gem thinks she's a pedophile," Boyd clarifies, unhelpfully.

"Hey. You can just shut up over there," Stiles snaps as he flushes again.

Goddamn Boyd.

"You do," Boyd insists as he licks at his bottom lip. "You told me so. I remember everything you tell me."

Stiles will not be impressed by that. He will not!

Although, Boyd's eyeing him with an indecipherable amount of intent. Then he smirks, as if he already knows Stiles is impressed. And that just gets to Stiles. It really does. He hates the way Boyd gets under his skin like that. Hates that Boyd has always and so easily been able to manage it.

He wants to dropkick Boyd in his smug little throat.

The bell rings, blessedly, and Stiles sprints to his feet, dying to put as much space between him and his overbearing ex.

It does no good. They still have at least five more classes together.

888

Coach cancels practice. He wouldn't say why but Stiles is highly suspicious that it has something to do with the fact that Lydia, Danny and Jackson have been a no show all day.

Plus there were rumors about a murder having happened last night at the video store on the edge of town, and this rumor was circulating viciously throughout the school. Now he could be wrong, but Stiles thinks that those three might have some kind of weird involvement with that.

Honestly, Stiles will take what he can get. Between worrying anxiously about Scott and having to deal with Boyd staring at him throughout every single class, he's exhausted. If there's no practice, then there's no reason why he shouldn't go home and pass the fuck out on the closest available surface—Spiderman style.

Stiles hikes his book bag up his shoulder, waving at Allison as they part ways in the school parking lot. Apparently she was having some kind of ' _study date_ ' with Matt at his house. Stiles had jokingly advised her to wear plenty of protection while they ' _studied'_.

That earned him a punch in the gut.

So worth it.

Stiles fishes for the keys to his jeep in his jean pockets as he checks his phone. Still no word from Scott.

He pulls his keys out with a sigh, accidently dropping them on the ground in his haste. He smacks his lips with a sigh, crouching down to feel around for them under his car, completely oblivious to the human shadow that falls over him from behind.

Stiles makes a triumphant sound when he finally finds his keys and stands to his feet again. He singles out his car key by shaking it out of the bunch and inserts it in the door slot, twisting until the locks unhinge with a pop. He glances up towards his window unconsciously, only to see Derek Hale looming behind him.

Stiles goes rigid and his mouth opens.

Derek quickly cups a hand over his lips just as he cries out in surprise. He presses Stiles into his car door, breathing heavily against his ear as he growls, "Don't make a sound."

Stiles fidgets in distress, wanting very much to make many, _many_ sounds—in several different octaves.

Derek growls lowly as if he senses this.

Holy shit, Stiles might just pee himself.

Derek growls again, chest vibrating with it and Stiles can feel the vibrations shudder into his own chest.

Oh God.

He's going to die.

Derek Hale is going to knife him in the parking lot of his school and he's going to bleed out on the floor and die.

His heart is punching itself against his ribcage like some sort of distressed animal, and he might just be hyperventilating.

He doesn't want to die.

 _Ohgodohgodohgod_ —

"Calm down," Derek snaps. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Stiles swallows thickly.

"I just need you to cooperate," he continues, voice pitched low. "Can you do that?"

Stiles nods rapidly.

Derek exhales and slumps. His forehead drops down to Stiles's shoulder and he just sort of breathes for a minute.

Stiles curses himself for parking so far back in the parking lot and out of view. No one's within hearing range either, and it makes him cry a little on the inside. He hopes to God that Derek wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't hurt him.

Derek finally pushes himself away from Stiles and stumbles to the other side of the car. He yanks open the door and sort of just falls in.

Stiles grips his keys tightly, wondering if he should just play it safe, run and call the cops. He doesn't particularly feel like dying today.

"Get in," Derek growls as he weakly sits up and slumps against the passenger side door.

Stiles just stands there, stricken.

Derek grinds out, "Please."

Stiles's face contorts unsurely. He's trying to understand why Derek—possible psychotic murderer Derek—is in his car, pale and clammy, looking as if he could keel over any minute. And he's asking for Stiles's help, or, Stiles can assume he is under the grunting and growling. And did he seriously just say please? Do murders usually say courteous things to their next victims? Is that a thing? Is Derek trying to make that a thing?

Derek's head lolls back with a shiver and his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow that looks almost painful.

Shit.

The dude looks pitiful.

And Stiles—

Stiles is an idiot.

A stupid, stupid idiot.

"If you kill me…" Stiles weakly threatens as he climbs into his jeep. "My dad will be forced to avenge me and you sure as hell don't want my family getting involved."

Derek glances at him briefly before he lifts his head and pulls his gaze forward. "I know," he quietly says. He shivers again and blinks his eyes deliberately, like he's trying to keep himself awake.

"Well—good," Stiles says, slightly confused. "Wait—do you know my dad or something?"

Derek turns his head away and Stiles could almost swear he sees Derek's lips curl up sadly for a second as he says, "You could say that."

Stiles waits for him to elaborate, but he doesn't.

"Start the car," Derek mutters.

Stiles does.

Derek winces, grunting as he doubles over and grips at his left arm with a pained face.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Dude! I don't want to see your death face. Stop it. Stop looking like you're about to die. You cannot die in this car. I will kick you out if you try," Stiles rambles in panic. He can't actually tell what's wrong with Derek's arm that makes him look this way. That stupid leather jacket is in the way.

Derek grits his teeth before he straightens. "I'm fine," he pants.

"No. You're not. You're really, _really_ not," Stiles argues, and against his better judgment, he finds himself reaching out and pressing the back of his hand to Derek's sweaty forehead. "Holy shit, you're burning up!" he exclaims. He shifts gears, shaking his head as he says, "That's it. I'm taking you to the hospital. Convicted murderer or not."

"No," Derek growls. "No hospitals." Then he adds, "And I'm not a convicted murderer."

"Well what do you want me to do?" Stiles says, voice bordering on hysterical and exasperated. "And don't tell me what you are! I totally dug up a body in your backyard, you freak. That's an indisputable implication if there ever was one."

"Take me to your house," Derek says, gripping his left arm as he clenches his jaw. He looks like he's biting down on his tongue. He must be in some serious pain.

"My _house?_ Why? What's at my house?" Stiles questions. "More people for you to murder and bury in your backyard? I'm not letting you kill my family."

"I'm not going to kill anyone, now just drive, Stiles!" Derek snaps, eyes flashing with blue like lightening.

Stiles gawks, eyes widened in disbelief, before he turns away quickly and drives out of the parking lot. He places one hand on the top of the steering wheel as he lifts the other to his mouth and starts chewing nervously on his nails.

Derek's eyes are burning a hole in the side of his face.

Stiles is not exactly sure, but he think he might be going crazy. This whole thing is a little surreal. This _situation_ is surreal.

Derek's eyes—

They had—

They—

Just what the hell just happened?

Stiles has only read—he's only—but that can't be—

Shit.

He needs his Adderall. His thoughts aren't coming together like he needs them to.

"I didn't do it," Derek says suddenly.

Stiles blinks and glances at him briefly before pulling his gaze back to the road. "What?"

"Laura," Derek mutters, sounding a little out of it. "She was my sister. I only came here to find her."

Stiles frowns in confusion. Derek's not making any sense. "What are you talking about?" he asks.

Derek doesn't respond. In fact, he doesn't say anything at all. He just breathes and slumps into himself, like it takes all the energy he has left to do such.

Stiles is worried. Then he worries about being worried. He shouldn't be worried. He should be concerned for his own life. He might be harboring a possible fugitive.

But Derek, despite appearances, still doesn't seem like much of a threat.

Doesn't negate the fact that Stiles unearthed a body on his property though.

But—

But what?

Stiles sighs and chews on his fingernails again as it begins to rain.

The rest of the ride is spent in silence.

When Stiles pulls up to his driveway and parks in the second garage, he prays that no one is home because he has no idea how he would explain Derek.

Stiles puts the car in park as the garage door closes noisily behind them. He cuts off the engine and pockets his keys as he thinks for a moment.

Derek's eyelids are slowly fluttering shut.

Stiles gives him a nice shove. " _Don't_ die in my car," he hisses.

Derek quickly blinks at him.

"Shit." Stiles turns away and pops his door open and slams it shut. He holds up a finger to Derek, who is staring at him through the windshield, and walks to his house door. He opens it slowly and glances around. "Anyone home?" he calls out and waits for any sound or response.

There is none.

Stiles sighs in relief and turns back to Derek, who's already stumbling out of the car. Stiles quickly moves to help him before he falls to the ground. Derek doesn't protest when Stiles lifts his right arm and drapes it over his shoulder so he can support him.

"Christ, you're heavy," Stiles grunts as they both kind of stagger to the house door and into the house. Stiles has no idea what to do with him or where to put him, so he half-carries Derek up the stairs and to his room. He kicks his bedroom door shut behind them and drags Derek into his washroom. He smacks down his toilet seat before he sits Derek on top of it and steps back. "Okay. Now what?"

Derek, who looks pale as a ghost, carefully shrugs off his leather jacket and tosses it to the side, revealing a hideously blackened gun wound.

"Holy shit!" Stiles exclaims. "You've been shot! Who shot you?"

Derek just grunts and shakes his head.

Stiles lifts his hands and fists his hair as he tries to think. Then, he drops his hands and approaches Derek, dropping to his knees.

Derek watches him curiously.

Stiles touches his fingers to Derek's wrist and slides them along the blackened veins showing through the skin until he stops short of the gaping gun wound. He leans in a little closer and inhales, choking a little at the smell of decaying flesh and—and—

Was that—

"Monkshood," Stiles mutters as he blinks. He lifts Derek's arm carefully as his eyes searched the gun wound frantically, and sure enough, he saw ground bits of blue and purple. He makes a sharp sound as he scrambles backwards and presses himself against his tub. "Holy fucking werewolf!" he exclaims as he looks up at Derek. "You're a werewolf."

Derek blinks slowly at him.

"Oh God. You are. You totally are and you didn't deny it. You totally didn't deny it and now you're dying. In my bathroom. A fucking werewolf is dying in my fucking bathroom," Stiles hisses as his eyes widen with every passing second. "I'm crazy. I must be. This isn't—you're not—what—"

"Stiles," Derek breathes and levels him with a stern look. "Calm down."

"You calm down!" Stiles snaps, because seriously—what the hell?

Derek blinks slowly at him, then he doubles over again, gripping at his injured arm.

Stiles chews on his bottom lip as he watches. "You're still dying and—yeah. Okay. Let me just—let me think," he says as he stands and starts pacing. He clamps his eyes shut as he reaches into his internal database of mythical creature knowledge.

Nordic blue monkshood. Genus of over 250 species of Aconitum that belong to the Buttercup family of plants. Classed as an Alkaloid toxin, one of the deadliest and most formidable poisonous substances known to man.

Deadly to werewolves.

No. Fatal. Absolutely fatal.

As for cures—none known.

Except—

A few cases recorded and reported, quite vaguely, instances of successful remedies.

But—

It's a long shot. A freakin' universe-wide long shot.

But—

It's the only one he's got.

Stiles pauses. "Derek. You need to tell me who shot you," he says.

Derek just blinks up at him, eyes glazed over and skin paling with every passing second.

"Who shot you?" Stiles asks again, a little less patiently this time.

Derek stares at him before his eyes lower. "Kate. Argent."

Stiles gapes. "Kate? As in my aunt, Kate?"

Derek slowly nods, still avoiding his eyes.

"What—what even—" Stiles blinks as he looks at the wall. "Okay. Do I even want to know?"

Derek looks at his door, eyebrows furrowed.

Not even a second later, there's a knock.

"Gem. You decent?"

It's Boyd.

Goddamn Boyd.

"Crap," Stiles mutters and looks at Derek. "Uh—wait here and—I don't know. Don't make any noise. Don't try to leave and—don't die. I'll get rid of him," he promises in a whisper.

Derek nods slowly.

Stiles spins on his heel, closing his bathroom door behind him as he walks over to his bedroom door. He whips it open and glares.

Boyd just smirks and leans nonchalantly against the doorframe.

"What do you want, Boyd?" Stiles questions impatiently. Seriously. He has no time for this. He's got a dying werewolf hidden away in his bathroom.

"Lower your hackles, Gem. I just stopped by because I figured we could study together. You know—get me caught up on what I've missed so far with school," Boyd suggests, eyes trailing down Stiles's body as he leans further in.

Stiles leans back with a scowl. "It's only been a week. How far behind can you be?" he counters.

Boyd just smirks and shrugs.

"Look, Boyd, I don't know what's going on inside that massive head of yours but whatever it is, considering that it most likely has to do with me, needs to stop. Okay? Whatever game you're playing needs to stop. I'm dating Scott and I will continue to date Scott. Understand?" Stiles says.

Boyd just looks over his shoulder into his room. Then he pushes forward and brushes past Stiles, making himself right at home on Stiles's bed.

"Oh my God—did you not hear anything I just said?" Stiles says with exasperation, turning towards him only to see Boyd lounging on his elbows on top of his bed. "Who let you in anyway?"

"Aunt Katie," Boyd says with a smirk. "She was driving up just as I was about to knock."

Stiles makes a face. "She's downstairs?" he asks, frightful of the answer.

"In the kitchen, last I saw," Boyd replies, swaggering to his feet and approaching Stiles with a kind of predatory grace.

"Boyd—why don't we rain check on that study session. I've got too much shit to deal with and you being a week behind is about right here—" he drops his hand to the floor. "—on my to-do-list today." He straightens and goes on to say, "And besides, I'd have to run it by Scott, but I'm pretty sure my _boyfriend_ would have something to say about me hitting the books alone with my ex."

Boyd smiles sarcastically as he reaches behind Stiles and shuts his door. Stiles is forced to step back and press against it, just to widen the distance between them. Doesn't really seem to matter because Boyd just crowds in and puts his hands on either side of Stiles's head, keeping his trapped.

"What exactly do you see in this guy?" Boyd asks.

"What's that's supposed to mean?" Stiles retorts as he fidgets.

"Just tell me—what do you like about him?" Boyd asks as he leans in closer. "How much do you really know about him?"

"Enough," Stiles hisses, leaning away. He's about five seconds from punching Boyd in his throat.

Boyd just huffs a quick laugh. "Okay. Well how much does he know about you?" His hands drop and before Stiles can do anything about it, Boyd is hauling him up by his thighs and pinning his body to the door with all his weight.

Stiles curses, putting his hands on Boyd's shoulders to steady himself and wrapping his legs around his waist. "Put me fucking down, Boyd!"

"No tell me, really. I'm curious. How well does he know you?" Boyd says, conversationally. Like he's not already fucking hard in his jeans and pressing it against Stiles's ass. "Does he know you like it rough? Does he know how insatiable you are in bed, hm? That you need someone to take care of business." Boyd thrusts up a little with every word as he says, "Does he. Take care. Of. Business?"

Stiles flushes and bites his bottom lip because Boyd is fucking right. It's been a while since someone's manhandled him like this, and even longer since he's had sex. He's getting hard and he can't help it. His body kind of thrives off of frequent sex, and he's got only himself to blame. It's not that he's promiscuous or anything. It's just—he's just used to _being_ with someone and _doing_ things with that someone.

Scott's been different and Stiles is not putting that as a complaint. Stiles had _wanted_ it to be different with Scott. He'd wanted to know what it felt like to take his time. To wait for the right moment.

Because underneath all of his sexual insatiableness, he's a romantic at heart.

Boyd slowly rolls his hips again with a cocky smirk and Stiles stifles a sound because it does kind of feel good. But he can't do this because he likes Scott and he's not a cheater and his fucking Aunt Kate is downstairs and _shit,_ Derek is still dying in the bathroom.

He can probably hear everything.

Stiles flushes in shame.

"Boyd let me down. I'm serious," Stiles grinds out, glaring at Boyd. "I swear to fucking God I'll scream rape and my psycho aunt will kick down this door and twist your ego-sized head off."

Boyd rolls his hips again, pretending like he's considering it.

Stiles curses and groans as he grinds back down reflexively. Not good, not good, not good.

Boyd takes his time but he finally steps back, letting Stiles go and watching as he slides slowly down the door, flushed with arousal and aggravation.

"I'm going to take you up on that rain check. And I mean that," Boyd says as Stiles pushes up to his feet. "You better tell Scott he needs to handle his business—or I'll do it for him." He opens the door and swaggers out without another word.

"Asshole!" Stiles yells after him.

Boyd just waves cheerfully over his shoulder as he jogs down the steps and out the door.

"Stiles? Is that you?"

"Shit," Stiles mutters, thumping his forehead against the doorframe. He takes a few steadying breathes, just to get himself under control, before he straightens. He glances at his bathroom door before he walks forward to the banister. His Aunt Kate is standing at the base of the stairs with a wide smile. "Hey—Aunt Kate," he says with an awkward wave.

"Now look at you. You get more and more handsome every time I see you," Kate says, eyes roaming over him shamelessly.

Stiles resists the urge to gag.

"I was just about to make some hot chocolate and bake some brownies. How about you join me?" Kate suggests, watching him carefully.

"Sure—just—can you give me about fifteen minutes. I need to sort my homework around and just process today's events," Stiles lies.

Kate nods. "Take your time. I'll be in the kitchen when you're done," and she disappears without a word.

Stiles exhales in relief before he glances down the hallway. They've got a guest room, which Stiles knows that Kate must be staying in. Carefully, and quietly, he treks over to the guest room and slides inside. He flips on the light and looks around at all the luggage Kate has scattered across the floor.

Stiles steps over them and drops to his knees at the base of Kate's bed.

Yup.

Just as he thought.

She's got that stupid camouflage bag he still remembers from when he was six. He'd been playing hide and seek with Allison and he had decided to hide under Kate's bed, back when she still had that hug condo in Boston. He had opened it up and found all sorts of weird weapons inside, but before he could touch any of it, Kate had pulled him out by his ankles and scolded him. Then she had proceeded to stroke his cheek, claiming she couldn't stay made at such a pretty, pretty boy.

Stiles shudders in disgust and shakes away the memory. He unzips the bag, and sure enough, he finds his aunt's poorly stashed weaponry. He rifles through the bag quickly and comes across a wooden box with a sketch of the monkshood flower on it. He flicks the lid open and counts nine bullets inside, the tenth one missing, and he knows he's found what he's looking for. He plucks out a bullet and quickly pockets it, snagging Kate's lighter as well before he shoves the duffel bag back under her bed.

He tiptoes out of her room and shuts the door quietly behind him before he sprints back to his own room. He closes his door, locking it just in case, before he turns to his bathroom and opens the door.

Derek is hunched over his toilet, puking up some disgusting black goop of some sort.

"Ugh—that's gross," Stiles says as he closes the door behind him.

Derek turns and glares at him as he pants.

"Relax. Geez. Don't be such a sourwolf. Stiles is going to make it all better," Stiles says as he holds up the gold bullet with a triumphant grin. "Or—he hopes he will," he adds, a little less confidently. He walks over the Derek and drops to his knees beside him. "Here—bite the head off. Werewolves have freaky sharp teeth right? So it shouldn't be a problem."

Derek eyes the bullet skeptically before he takes it.

Stiles slaps down his toilet seat and flushes it as Derek sticks the head of the bullet between his teeth and bites down, snapping the metal loose easily. He hands it back to Stiles as he breathes shallowly.

Stiles quickly takes it and pours out the powder on the lid of the toilet seat. He then fishes for the lighter in his pocket, _flick-flick-flicking_ it until a flame appears. He passes it over the powder, causing it to crackle in sparks of blue.

"I hope this works," Stiles says as he gently threads his fingers around the short hairs at the base of Derek's skull. "Lean forward for me, Derek. I need you to breathe this in," he says.

Derek looks at him through lowered lids before he leans forward obediently.

Stiles keeps him steady as he uses his free hand to fan the blue smoke up to his nose. "Take a deep breath. Really breathe it in," he instructs.

Derek closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

"Good. Now—this next part is gonna suck," Stiles warns as he scoops up as much of the powder as he can before grinding it into Derek's wound.

Derek snarls and flies back, slamming his back against the floor with a loud thump as his body curves up into a bow. He hisses as he clutches at his left arm with an agonized expression.

Stiles watches him with wide eyes and chews on his fingernails while he desperately hopes he didn't just kill the older man.

But after a while, Derek stops squirming and the wound starts closing, pushing the bullet that was lodged inside, out. It hits the floor with a metallic clink and the wound closes itself completely. Derek exhales and slumps against the floor, lifting his arm to study it.

Stiles gapes. "It worked! I mean it was a long shot—God you don't even know how long of a shot that was. But it worked! You're cured. I just cured you. I am just too awesome," he says, pumping his fist with an excited grin.

Derek looks at him for a moment before he nods, standing to his feet and grabbing his leather coat.

"Dude, I have so many questions! Like—where did you come from? Are there more of you? Is it anybody I know? Were you born this way or bitten? Are vampires real? What about zombies? No, yeah I need to know that one first. I have a real acute fear of the walking dead. I need to be prepared if there's a zombie apocalypse. This one time—"

_Knock, knock, knock._

"Stiles, you okay in there? I heard a noise."

"Shit," Stiles hisses and quickly whips open his bathroom door to sprint over to his bedroom door. "Yeah, I'm fine. Stubbed my toe. Really hard," he lies.

"Okay then," Kate says from the other side. "Be careful."

"Yes. I will," Stiles promises and waits. It's a few minutes before he can hear her feet move away from his door. He sighs in relief and glances towards his bathroom.

It's empty.

Stiles blinks and twists his body around in time to see Derek lifting his window. "Hey wait! You're just going to leave? Just like that? You're not even going to answer to any of my questions or say thank you?" He hopes it doesn't sound like he's whining, because he totally is. What ever happened to tit for tat? He just saved the dude's life, the least Derek could do was humor him.

Derek blinks at him slowly and he seems to be silently contemplating something. Finally he just says, "Thank you."

"Well—there you go. You do have manners. Your welcome," Stiles says as he crosses his arms. "What about my questions though? Actually—what I really want to know is why my aunt shot you. Does this have something to do with you knowing my dad?"

Derek stares at him for about thirty seconds before he slides out the window, saying, "Not my place to say."

Then he's gone. Just like that.

Stiles runs over to his window and pokes his head out, looking frantically in every direction, but he only catches just a glimpse of a black dog disappearing into the forest. After a while, Stiles pulls back and pushes his window close. He walks over to his door and unlocks it as he pulls it open, trekking over to the stairs and down them towards the kitchen.

He doesn't find his Aunt Kate.

Instead, he finds Scott sitting on a barstool, casually eating a brownie.

"Hey," Stiles says with a small amount of confusion and surprise.

Scott brightens when he sees him. "Hey. Sorry about earlier. I wasn't—" He stops short as his smile vanishes. " _Stiles_ … _"_ he growls and he's at Stiles's side in an instant. He tucks his nose at the base of Stiles's neck, taking a deep inhale before he growls again.

And Stiles gets this weird thought. A really, really, _really_ weird thought.

What if Scott was a werewolf?

Stiles swallows thickly as Scott steps back, staring at him with an odd expression as his shoulders shake. "Um—Scott?"

"Where is he?" Scott growls. Oh God—fucking _growls_. Like some kind of enraged animal. "Derek was here. I can smell him on you." His eyes flash gold and his canines elongate in his mouth and—and—

Stiles does not squeak or hyperventilate.

He doesn't!

He just kindly passes the fuck out.

Yeah.

Not his proudest moment.

888

"This is stupid. Isn't Scott supposed to be doing this?"

"Yeah."

"So why isn't he?"

"You know why. Where exactly do you think he is?"

"Fucking, Stilinski."

"Exactly."

"You sure about this?" Erica asks, as she fidgets from foot to foot. "I mean—is it okay that we're the ones doing this?"

"I don't know, but if I told you that before we got here, you would've never come," Isaac admits as he reaches out and rings the doorbell. "It's worth a shot."

"This better not be a waste of time," Erica mutters as she tucks her bushy hair behind her ears and yanks down at the hem of her grey sweatshirt.

The door opens and Mrs. Martin smiles at them with a bit of confusion but no less warmth. "Can I help you?" she asks.

"Yes," Isaac says, gracing her with a charming grin. "We are—friends of Lydia. And since she didn't come to school, we thought we'd stop by and check up on her."

Erica gives a very brief, synthetic smile, as if she can't be bothered to be friendly.

"Oh, well. That is absolutely nice of you two to do," Mrs. Martin says, stepping out of the way and gesturing for them to come in.

Isaac and Erica do.

Mrs. Martin closes the door behind them and leads them up the stairs. "Now I must warn you—Lydia is not quite herself. Between breaking up with Jackson and her traumatic experience last night, well…" She stops in front of Lydia's door, knocking once before opening it, revealing a sprawled out Lydia, who is stuffing cheese puffs in her mouth. She's in a flimsy purple nightgown and her hair is a mess. "The anti-depressants keep her more—mellow," Mrs. Martin says generously. "Lydia, sweetie, you have some friends from school here to see you."

Lydia blinks over at them before she stuffs more cheese puffs in her mouth.

"Right, well, I'll leave you three to it," Mrs. Martin says before she scuttles off.

Erica invites herself into Lydia's room and begins fingering all of Lydia's knick-knacks.

Isaac moves to sit on the edge of Lydia's bed.

Lydia spares him a brief glance before she starts playing with a strand of her strawberry blonde hair.

"Lydia," Isaac says as he folds his hands together over his lap. "I want to ask you some questions. About what happened last night. At the video store."

"For god's sake, Isaac, talk normally," Erica says. "She's heavily medicated, not retarded."

"She's not fully functional, I get that. Do you?" Isaac snipes back. "Just let me do this."

Erica rolls her eyes and goes back to fiddling with Lydia's perfume, sniffing a few and pocketing the ones she likes.

"Lydia—last night. Did you—see something? Hear something?" Isaac asks carefully, watching as she stuffs another handful of cheese puffs in her mouth. "What happened?"

Lydia spends a moment chewing before she shoves the bag of chips off the bed. She turns away and curls herself around one of her silk pillows.

"Lydia."

"No questions," she mumbles, reaching behind herself and pressing a finger sloppily to Isaac's mouth. " _Shh_. We don't talk about it," she whispers conspiratorially.

Erica snorts as she riffles through Lydia's underwear drawer.

"Okay, okay," Isaac says and smacks away her hand. "But what exactly what are we not talking about?"

"The bad thing," Lydia sighs out as she rolls onto her back again. Her hands begin skimming up and down her body as she stares up at the ceiling blankly. "Big." Her hands slides down between her thighs. "Black." Her other hands slides up to cup one of her breasts. "Scary." Her eyes rolls over to Isaac, who's staring unabashedly at her shameless display, and she reaches out and cups a hand over his cock. "Monster."

Isaac jumps and laughs nervously as Erica glares at the both of them. He pushes her hand away and distances himself. "You know what, you were right. I don't think we're going to get anything out of her like this so—"

Erica ignores him and stalks toward the bed, fisting a hand in Lydia's hair and hauling her up to eye level. "Listen to me you little primped up Barbie. Start fucking talking or so help me, I'll take one of those little tasteful thongs of yours and shove it so far down your cocksucking throat, it'll look like some kind of freak accident," she hisses. "Now—what happened last night?"

Lydia blinks at her slowly before she pokes Erica's chin. "You have a pimple right there," she says.

"Ah, fuck it. This is a waste of time," Erica says, loosening her grip and letting Lydia's head fall back on the bed gracelessly. "Let's just let Scott deal with this."

"We could go to Jackson's. He wasn't in school today either. Maybe he knows something," Isaac offers as he watches Erica stand and dust herself off.

Erica makes a disgusted face. "Pass. I wouldn't talk to that jerkoff for a million dollars. Let's try Danny. I like Danny," she suggests.

"Everyone likes Danny," Isaac says with a frown.

Erica simply shrugs, walking towards the door, Isaac in tow.

"No good," Lydia says, suddenly.

Isaac and Erica turn back to her.

"You wont find him," Lydia says, hugging a pillow to her chest and tucking her mouth against it. "Took Danny. No more Danny." Lydia's eyes lift and they're red and rimmed with tears. "I should have said something. But I was so scared." She sniffs. Then, just like a light switch, she's smiling again. "Has anyone seen my cheese puffs? I could have sworn I had them."

Isaac and Erica stare at her before Erica grabs Isaac by the arm and drags him out of the house, not even acknowledging Mrs. Martin's verbal farewell.

"Call Scott," Erica orders. "He needs to know. We've got a fucking situation."

Isaac silently agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do me a favor guys, since you seem to be liking this, can you go ahead and recommend to others? I'm always happy to have others join us on this wild adventure I call a plot. Also, tell me what you think. Your comments matter.


	5. Chapter 5

_When we least expect it, life sets us a challenge to test our courage and willingness to change; at such a moment, there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready. The challenge will not wait. Life does not look back. A week is more than enough time for us to decide whether or not to accept our destiny._

**― Paulo Coelho**

888

Stiles feels wet.

More specifically, his forehead feels wet.

There is something wet and slick working across a particularly stinging cut slashed at the corner of his right eyebrow.

Licked.

He was being licked. He's conscious enough to understand this.

Not to mention that whatever it was that was doing the licking was purring like some kind of pleased humanoid motor.

"Ah," Stiles says as his eyes blink open. He glances around and notices that Scott is curled around him, swiping his tongue across his forehead. They're in his room, on his bed, and Scott is making a low guttural sound in his chest as he licks _his face_ like it's the most natural thing in the world.

What has his life become?

Scott's tongue swipes one final time over his cut before he noses Stiles's cheek. "You okay?" he asks softly.

Okay?

_Okay?_

Stiles jackknifes into a sitting position and squeaks in the most undignified manner just to prove how un-okay he actually is.

"Hey! Hey! Calm down! It's okay—you're okay," Scott reassures quickly as he puts his hands on Stiles's shoulders as if to steady him. "Please don't faint again," he pleads, rubbing at Stiles's tense shoulders.

"I passed out?" Stiles says with a frown as he carefully prods at his forehead. He winces when he comes into contact with the shallow cut over his eyebrow.

"Yeah—only for ten minutes," Scott replies, kneading his thumbs into Stiles's shoulder blades.

Stiles frowns again, trying to remember exactly what happened before he blacked out. "I passed out," he murmurs faintly, trying to think. "I passed out because you— _oh my God!_ You! With the eyes and the teeth and—guh!" He whips around to face Scott, who is eyeing him with an unsettling amount of anxiousness. "You're a werewolf!" he exclaims, pointing an accusatory finger.

Scott's eyes cross adorably as he tries to look at Stiles's finger. "Uh—yeah. I kind of am," he replies simply. Then he straightens his face so he can smile apologetically. "Surprised?"

"That does not even do justice to how I'm feeling," Stiles groans as he buries his face into his hands. "Two werewolves in one day. I am confused and trying to rethink my life, because suddenly all those disappearing acts are making sense and—"

"Why was Derek here?" Scott blurts suddenly, as if he couldn't hold back the question anymore. "I can—smell him all over your room." He pauses to frown severely. His eyes go to and fro about Stiles's room. "I can smell him all over," he restates. He turns his gaze back to Stiles, frown prominent as ever. "I don't like it."

Stiles blinks at him but he can't stop the snort that escapes him. "You want to talk about smells when clearly we have bigger issues that need to be addressed?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"I—this _is_ ," Scott hisses with as much sincerity as possible. "He—this is _my_ territory."

"No. This is _my_ territory—"

"Stiles…"

"—and don't think you're slick just because you replaced ' _your_ ' with ' _my_ '. I may not be a werewolf but I get what's going on," Stiles says as he cards a couple of fingers through his short hair before he rubs his finger across the seam of his bottom lip. "Derek—I had to help him. I don't know, maybe I didn't but—I just—I don't know. I couldn't let him die. I'm not—that's not—who I am."

"He could have gone someone else. Why you?" Scott mutters, picking at the Stiles's blanket.

"Good question," Stiles retorts. "I'm kind of wondering that myself. But," he glances at Scott. "I'm glad he didn't because I wouldn't have known about you."

Scott actually has the gall to look guilty. "I would have told you, it's just I—I'm still figuring all this stuff out myself," he admits.

"You must think I'm really close-minded," Stiles says as he tucks his legs under him and he crosses his arms.

"What—no! Stiles, how could you even—that's not why I didn't say anything. I'd rather you would have found out all of this from me rather than from _Derek_." He frowns again, and it looks so odd on him because Stiles is used to seeing him smile. "I don't trust him," he says. "He's up to something. Coming to you wasn't a coincidence. It was deliberate. I just—I don't know _why_."

"You guys have some kind of wolfy rivalry or something?" Stiles asks, partially joking.

Scott just shakes his head and drops his forehead into his open palms.

Stiles gives him a few minutes of silence before he says, "You're a werewolf."

Scott lifts his head, blinks but then nods solemnly.

"This—this just explains so much. Really. I mean—all this time—" He pauses long enough to remember why he's upset. Before Scott has the time expect it, Stiles tackles him to the other side of his bed. "You moron!" he exclaims, throwing his fists down in frustration as Scott lifts his arms to shield himself from Stiles's spastic punches.

"Stiles—what are you even— _ow_ —come on!" Scott grunts, bucking his hips and trying to throw Stiles off balance.

"You absolute idiot! You should have told me from the start. Do you know how much I worried about you? How much I thought I must be insane for putting up with you because you've been acting off-kilter since day one! You—you—you _asshole!_ " Stiles hisses, throwing his fists in generally any area of Scott's body.

Scott's eyes flash with gold and before Stiles can blink, he rolls them over and pins Stiles's flailing arms to the bed while using his full weight to keep the rest of his body down. " _Stiles…_ " he growls warningly. "Don't—don't do that unless—unless you want me to—to—" and because apparently words aren't serving their proper purpose, Scott rocks his hips forward, slow and dirty and— _Jesus—_ so fucking dirty and good.

Stiles squeaks, a _-fucking_ -gain, and tightens his thighs against Scott's hips because— _holy shit_ —Scott is hard. How the hell can he be hard at a time like this? Never mind that his own dick is twitching with interest and would very much like to see where this is headed. But they can't because Scott is a fucking werewolf and he never said anything and Stiles is pissed for a lot of reasons about that.

"Scott let me up."

"No."

"Let me up! We are not going from arguing to you fucking me. Let, me, _up_."

" _No_."

"You let me up or I will _make_ you—werewolf or not!"

"I can't, okay? I can't!"

Stiles pauses and takes the time to really study Scott's face. He seems almost on the verge of—something. While he may not be wolfing out completely, his eyes are still gold.

"You have to be still and let me domina—just be still for a minute. I just—because the wolf—it—it wants me to put you in your pla—to show you," Scott stammers, face flushing with need and embarrassment and blatant self-control that looks almost painful. "I don't want to have to—because we haven't—not yet but—it wants me to because it thinks you belong to me. To both of us. And you—you doing that—fighting me and resisting when you have another wolf's _smell_ on you—what you did—what _he_ did, is like a challenge to my claim. Like an—an invitation to restate it. Okay? Say okay so I know you understand."

Stiles doesn't say okay because he doesn't understand, not completely. Scott looks edgy and Stiles doesn't like that—doesn't like that he might be the reason for it.

"Let my hands go," he says gently.

Scott eyes him unsurely for a moment before he does.

Stiles wastes no time in curling his hands into Scott's hair and yanking him down so he can tongue-fuck the shit out of this idiot. This endearing, easily jealous, animalistic idiot.

Scott makes a noise of surprise but he doesn't hesitate to react enthusiastically, licking his way inside of Stiles's mouth with a pleased rumble that's undeniably possessive.

Stiles waits a moment or two before he untwists his fingers from Scott's hair and scrapes his nails down the back of his neck, over his collarbone and down his chest. He slowly rolls his hips up, sighing when Scott makes a small sound and pushes down, sliding his tongue over the front of Stiles's teeth. Stiles pulls back, dragging Scott's bottom lip with him as he does so before he soothes it by sucking gently on it. Scott shudders and slumps a little. Stiles senses that Scott has calmed and he lifts his hands to scratch soothingly at Scott's scalp.

Scott drops his forehead to Stiles's collarbone and rumbling in pleasure.

"That was an apology kiss that you didn't deserve but I gave to you anyway because for some reason I fucking like you a lot," Stiles says fondly and watches as Scott lifts his head to look at him fully. "Werewolf or not—which I'm still trying to wrap my head around by the way—I like you very much. FYI, the apology was for your wolfy counterpart, who apparently wants to fuck me through this mattress because I tried to throttle you while smelling like someone else—don't blush like that, you know that's what you were trying to say," he says knowingly.

Scott grumbles a little, flush dying slowly on his cheeks as he glances away for a moment. "It's not right," he mutters. "You taking care of someone else when your—mine. Doesn't feel right. You're not supposed to—with anyone else. I can excuse your family but—Derek—he isn't…isn't…I'm not making sense," he sighs, taking a moment to rub at his forehead in frustration.

"No, you're not," Stiles agrees. "But I kind of get it I guess." He watches Scott for a moment until Scott turns those sweet brown eyes back on him. "I am still very pissed," he admits as he slides his hands over the sides of Scott's ribcage, fanning his fingers out just so he can feel Scott breathe. "And I'll tell you why I'm pissed. Not only did you not _tell_ me you are a werewolf but you're stupid enough to _date_ me."

Scott frowns, and it's obvious that he's confused.

"Okay, you still don't get it." Stiles sighs and gives Scott a little shove. He sits up and rolls off his bed, standing to his feet and trekking over to his bookshelf. His fingers flutter over the spines of each book before he comes across leather-bound journal. He yanks it out and returns to the bed, crawling over to Scott and straddling his waist. "Okay this—this right here. This is a family heirloom that I may or may not have stolen from my Grandpa Gerard's library. I don't think he'll notice anyway, he's got like billions more," he says with a shrug as he open it and shows Scott an impressive sketch of a werewolf. "So I didn't mention this before now because I didn't think it mattered but I'm kind of a history buff—or more specifically, a folklore buff.

"Ever since I can remember, I've always been interested in things like vampires and zombies and fairies and things like that. Didn't really think it was a big deal because—you know, everyone has a hobby—these things aren't supposed to be real anyway. And my family has always encouraged me to research these things without saying why they were so supportive. My Aunt Kate once said my affinity for mythical knowledge was genetic. And my Grandpa Gerard is almost as bad as I am, except he has this thing for our family history and our lineage. I mean, to be honest with you, I think I have a pretty crackpot family, and I only felt like it was confirmed when my Grandpa Gerard starting introducing me to some of the journals of our ancestors, all in a Latin by the way—that stuff takes weeks to translate, I've kind of given up on them, except for this one." Stiles pauses to point his finger at the journal in his hand. "This one belonged to my many great Uncle Devlin, who outlines in great detail, every supernatural encounter he had during his time of exile from America, and his roaming travels throughout all of Europe back in 1842.

"And at first I didn't think anything of it, I thought, okay, this dude is just as crazy as the rest of them, this is a pretty good read though. But I swear there were times when I would read something and I couldn't help but to think that maybe he just wasn't writing fairytales or weaving awesome fictional stories. That maybe there really is more to life and to my family history than I realize. And now I find out that werewolves actually exist and that my fucking aunt shot one with _monkshood—knew_ to shoot one with monkshood,and I can't be sure, but I'm starting to think that my dad selling firearms for a living is just a cover because he's actually apart of an elite group of hunters out to banish and rid the world of mythical creatures like—"

"Werewolves. He is actually," Scott interjects, looking a little sheepish when Stiles goes wide-eyed. "He, um—shot me in the arm with an arrow during my first full moon. Which is why I had to skip out on Lydia's party because—because I was changing and I couldn't fight it and I didn't want to freak you out or hurt you. But I'm totally in control now, so you don't have to worry."

Stiles whacks him over the head with his uncle's journal. "You knew? You _knew—_ and you're still trying to go out with me? My family will probably shoot you in the face or crucify you if they find out and—and—oh man. Oh _man_. Allison doesn't know—I should, I mean—should I? Tell her about this? She should know—she should totally know. We've been kept in the dark about this and—fuck! Fucking Boyd will shoot you too because I just know he must—with his father and—he's gotta be a part of this and—"

Scott kisses him, even though his lips keep moving. He's making muffled sounds before his brain catches up with the rest of him and realizes that Scott is kissing him. So naturally he stops thinking long enough to kiss Scott back.

Stiles licks at his lips when Scott pulls back with a grin.

"You really talk a lot," Scott comments but his eyes are gleaming happily so Stiles really can't find it in him to be insulted.

"That's not a complaint is it?" Stiles questions, almost breathlessly because, God, Scott does not hold anything back when he kisses.

"No. Never," Scott replies softly. "But your face was getting red and your heart was racing and you weren't really pausing to take a breath so I thought I'd intervene before you passed out again from another panic attack."

Stiles gives him a wry look but he keeps his mouth shut. Now that was just uncalled for. He didn't need to remind Stiles of his—slip of gravity and consciousness. He refuses to call it fainting cause Stiles just doesn't faint.

"Stiles," Scott sighs as he rubs his hands up and down Stiles's arms. "You have to know—even with the danger of being found out—nothing is going to keep me away from you. Not your mom or your dad or your scary aunt. Not Boyd or Derek. Not even my friends. No one. Because from the first moment I heard your voice, I knew I didn't want anything else."

Stiles blushes and internally flails from both exasperation and fondness. "Wait—heard my voice?" he questions with a frown.

It's Scott's turn to blush and look uncomfortable. He rubs the back of his neck and says, "Uh, yeah. I—heard you. Outside. You were debating with Allison about skipping and I think I prayed to every deity you wouldn't so I could at least see the face of the person I was falling in love with."

Stiles jaw drops.

"Knock, knock," Kate says, knocking a hand to Stiles's open door and peering in with a smile. "Just came to check up on you two." She steps in and shakes her head as she smiles fondly at Stiles. "I step out for a smoke for just a second and come back to find you sprawled on the kitchen floor. You are such a klutz. Luckily you have such a handsome young man looking after you."

Stiles nods wordlessly and eases himself off of Scott's lap, uncomfortable with the way Kate is eyeing them both. Jesus—is there ever a time when she doesn't make him uncomfortable?

Nope.

"Well," she continues after a while. "I brought you some leftover brownies." She places the plate on the bed, leaning forward to ruffle Stiles's hair and kissing him on the corner of his mouth. "You've got good taste, Stiles. He's a real looker," she whispers. She leans back and winks at Scott. "You boys be good now," and she swaggers out of the room, closing the door behind her.

"Bleh," Stiles says, scrubbing at the corner of his mouth viciously with the inside of his wrist. "I hate when she does that. I swear she'd kiss me right on the mouth if she thought she could get away with— _guh_!"

Scott swipes his tongue across the spot where his Aunt Kate kissed him with a possessive growl.

"Um—" Stiles says, just sort of sitting there and letting him because Scott seems determined, eyes ablaze with gold again. "So that thing you said about excusing family…"

"She's different. I could smell her desire," Scott explains, still not quite himself but aware enough to speak.

"Oh, that's gross," Stiles says as he makes a disgusted face.

Scott plucks the journal out of Stiles's hand and gently eases him onto his back.

Stiles doesn't complain—not even sure he can because Scott seems like he's on a mission.

Scott gathers him close, spooning his side, tangling their legs together and nosing his way under Stiles's jaw, chest rumbling again.

"So, uh—I could be wrong, but—I feel like this is another wolf thing going on here," he says and waits for a reply, only to get none. "Is it?"

"Scenting," Scott mutters distractedly as he rubs soothing circles around Stiles's navel through his shirt.

"Scenting…" Stiles echoes with a frown. "Are you _marking_ me?"

Scott just makes a guttural sound as he curls his arms around him and hides his face in Stiles's neck, sniffing—searching for something.

"Scott!" Stiles says in exasperation.

"You've got too many smells on you. Smells that aren't me. Other people's desire and I just—I have to scent them out or I just might go hunt down every person who's touched you and rip their eyes out and snap their fingers. Just—just let me do this okay? I need to do this," Scott says, somewhat incoherently. "It's instinct."

"Okay," Stiles says quickly.

A blanket of silence falls over them.

Stiles drums his fingers up and down Scott's arm before he drops his hand to his bed, fingers skimming the edge of the plate of brownies. He drags it closer and breaks off a piece to shoves in his mouth.

"You know," he says, chewing and squirming when Scott's fingers flutter along his sides. "Now that I can get over the initial shock and the fact that it might be annoying at times—I think it's really cool that you're a werewolf."

Scott's smile is unmistakable as it presses into his skin.

"So—how did you become one?" Stiles asks, shoving another brownie piece in his mouth.

"Bitten," Scott mumbles as he lifts his head. He tugs at the neckline of Stiles's shirt, yanking it out of the way as he swipes his tongue over the pulse lying underneath Stiles's skin and into the dip of his collarbone. "Alpha," he adds.

"Hm," Stiles says, mulling it over in his head vaguely, a little distracted by the sensation of Scott sucking a mark into his skin. "Hey—you said last Friday was your first full moon. Does that mean—"

Scott sits up with an impatient sound and an adorably frustrated frown. "This isn't working the way it should," he says, gold eyes moving to and fro across Stiles's body. He reaches out towards the hem of Stiles's t-shirt but then pulls his hands back in abortive gesture. "Can you, um—can you take your shirt off?"

Stiles blinks at him because—what?

"Stiles, please," Scott says, shoulders shaking as he lifts his fingers and shows off some impressively sharp claws. "I—I might rip it off you. Could you maybe…"

Stiles sits up quickly and yanks it over his head, tossing it off to some random corner.

Scott makes another pleased sound and pushes Stiles back again, nosing his way across Stiles's stomach.

Stiles shudders as he feels Scott lick a hot stripe up his chest, and then down again. His hips buck a little when Scott slides his tongue languidly along the edge of his pants. Stiles fumbles to twist his fingers in Scott's hair as Scott's tongue dips into his navel before dragging up to his collarbone again. He groans a little when Scott's tongue curves over his right shoulder, down his arm, across the inside crease of his elbow and between the spaces of his fingers.

It's so deliberate and gentle and achingly slow that Stiles just finds himself wanting. He just _wants_. Anything and everything that Scott can give, it doesn't matter. Not even when Scott drags his tongue up to his shoulder and over to the other and down his arm to do the same thing his just did all over again.

Stiles is throbbing behind his jeans, fitful of arousal and impatience needling at his skin, scattering his thoughts. This whole scenting thing seems like foreplay—or more like _fore_ without the _play_.

That tongue—oh God—that _tongue._

It's giving him ideas.

There are just so many possibilities—all taking shape in his mind in fucking _Technicolor_ and Stiles wants to do it all.

Scott noses his nipple, inhales and flicks his tongue out over the hardening bud.

"Scott…" Stiles whimpers, hips bucking into the air, searching, seeking, _wanting_ friction. "You—you have to do something. I'm—I'm losing my mind over here."

Scott breathes in deeply, eyes flashing when he looks up to meet Stiles's, gaze raw with sexual energy and hunger.

Something about that look just punches the air right out of Stiles's lungs. His head falls back as he stares up at ceiling, a little dizzy with his own desire.

"You're aroused."

"Very," Stiles agrees.

Scott noses his cheeks and his eyes before he licks his tongue over Stiles's eyelid.

"Scott…" Stiles complains, shifting his head away and carefully trailing his hand down Scott's chest. Scott ruins it of course, because he captures that hand and pins it to the bed. Stiles is not pouting and on the verge of a tantrum. Nope. Not even. Stupid Scott with his stupid tongue is just doing anything and everything to drive him crazy. "Scott…" he says, not even caring that he's whining this time.

"I'm concentrating, Stiles," Scott says determinedly but he sounds a little amused. "I have to do this first."

"No, you have to do _me_ first," Stiles whines, yanking at Scott's shirt as he chases after Scott's wandering mouth—after that amazingly agile tongue.

Scott chuckles huskily as he licks under Stiles's ear. "Stop trying to distract me," he growls warningly, but it also sounds playful.

Stiles pouts. "This scenting is beginning to suck," he complains. "Or not suck—which sucks."

Scott retaliates by nipping at his earlobe.

Stiles gasps as his hips jump. He has always had extremely sensitive ears.

Scott rumbles approvingly as he drags his tongue down Stiles's chest again.

"Are you done yet?" Stiles complains, fisting Scott's hair as he starts sucking marks across his stomach, making Stiles squirm like a worm and hump at the air.

"No," Scott mumbles simply, looking content to keep doing what he's doing for the extension of forever.

Stiles and his dick are not okay with that.

Scott chuckles against his skin.

"What?" Stiles sighs, a little irritated, a little dazed.

"You smell—frustrated."

"Well I am!" Stiles complains. "God, I wanna ride you so bad right now—like, you have no idea, Scott," he groans, tugging at Scott's hair.

Scott makes a choked sound and quickly clamors up his body to suck greedily on his tongue, which proves that yes, he does have some idea.

Stiles scrapes his fingers down Scott's back as he rolls his hips up, thinking, _finally_. He traps Scott between his legs, smart enough not to let him go this time and fully enjoying the responding growl he gets when he rolls hips up again. He jumps in surprise when Scott's hands reach under him and gropes his ass like he fully intends to take Stiles up on his word and Stiles is definitely, really okay with that.

Unfortunately, Scott's phone decides that's the perfect time to be a cockblock.

"Oh come _on_ …" Stiles groans as his head falls back against his bed.

Scott makes a sympathetic sound as he gently thumps his forehead against Stiles's collarbone. "I don't have to answer it," he mumbles.

"Yeah—but it could be important," Stiles points out with a disappointed frown.

Scott reaches in his pocket and pulls his phone out, answering it without lifting his head.

Stiles just sighs and blinks up at the ceiling as he combs his fingers through the short hairs on the base of Scott's neck.

"What?" Scott hisses as he sits up.

Stiles sits up too and watches Scott's shifting expressions in concern.

"Danny? You sure?" Scott asks and then pauses. He sighs. "No, no. Okay—I'll—I'll meet you there." He slides his phone in his pocket and looks at Stiles apologetically. "As much as I don't want to—I have to go."

"Go? Go where?" Stiles questions as Scott stands and starts searching his floor for his shoes. "I just got you back," he whines, feeling like he's on the verge of handcuffing Scott to his bed.

"Just—it's a long story," Scott says, pulling his shoes on. He leans over Stiles and gives him a quick kiss. "I promise to tell you when I get the chance." He heads for the door.

"I'll hold you to that," Stiles calls after him. "And the other thing we were gonna do before you answered your demon phone!"

Scott pauses to say, "Only if you do the reverse cowgirl—or I guess it would be cowboy in this case."

Stiles's jaw drops in surprise, completely unprepared for that comeback.

Scott laughs, winking deviously before he disappears from sight.

Stiles sighs again, grabbing his pillow as he falls back and jamming it over his face so he can scream.

He's getting tired of having to 'take care of business' himself.

But suddenly, that doesn't matter because—

"Oh my God, he said he _loves_ me!"

888

Erica hangs up the phone and shoves it in her purse. "He said he'll meet us there," she says.

Isaac nods as they both climb into his car, driving off and leaving Lydia's house behind.

The drive to Danny's house only takes fifteen minutes. The spectacular thing about Beacon Hills is the convenience of people and their designated living locations. Erica never really noticed this until now. She wonders if it's all a part of fate's design—them all knowing how to find each other so easily. She slams the car door close behind her as she watches Isaac shove his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

He makes his way around the car and saddles up beside her, leaning against the hood of the car as they peer up the drive to Danny's immaculate stone house. Even from this distance, Erica can tell that the house must be flawlessly designed on the inside. And why wouldn't it be? Danny's mothers were both renowned interior designers, who have made a name for themselves throughout all of California and various parts of the East Coast as a whole.

Was it really a wonder that Lydia, Jackson and Danny hung out with each other? They all came from the same stream. All of them with ridiculously rich parents in respectable professions, their nice houses, their good looks and their undeserved popularity.

Birds of a feather, indeed.

Erica snorts humorlessly as she shoves a cigarette between her chapped lips, cupping her palm at the end of it as her thumb flicks over the green lighter she'd swiped from her mother before she left this morning. She sucks in as the tip glows orange and drops the lighter back into her purse again.

Isaac makes a face and snatches the cigarette, snapping it in half and tossing it over his shoulder before she can even get out a word of protest.

"Motherfucker—" Erica swings her fist at him as he ducks back and lifts his arms to shield himself.

"Stop," Isaac hisses, and drops his arms when she does. "You shouldn't be smoking anyway. Those things can kill you. It's like slow suicide."

"I know how I'm going to die," Erica says confidently. She digs around in her purse for another, moving three steps away from Isaac when she finds one.

"No you don't," Isaac mutters, watching her with an unnerving amount of intensity as she flicks her thumb over the lighter. He sniffs and scuffs his feet against the pavement as he looks away. "No one can really know."

Erica snorts and blows out a stream of smoke, using her free hand to yank down on the hem of her grey sweatshirt. "Except for people like me," she argues. She inhales, feeling the heat and sharpness of it coil around in her lungs, easing the tension in her shoulders as she scratches the nail of her thumb over her eyebrow. It's annoying habit she's inherited from her mother.

"You don't know," Isaac mutters, cupping a hand over his shoulder and looking off in the distance.

"I do know—and we both know that," Erica retorts, exhaling a breath of smoke into the cold evening air. "You're just scared that I know too much. You and Scott have always been afraid."

Isaac's eyebrows furrow and he doesn't look at her, doesn't deny it. He just looks at Danny's house again.

"I've made my peace—over a lot of things. I see the angles of my life and every tangent fate strings through it." Erica slashes her cigarette through the air, waving it to and fro like some kind of wand. "It's not so bad," she says as she brings the cigarette back to her numb lips and takes another greedy inhale, ignoring the way her hands shake. "Some pretty awesome stuff's gonna happen before I go."

Isaac makes this frustrated sound that sounds almost painful as he pushes off the car and shoves his hands in his pockets again. "Shut up, Erica," he grunts. "Just shut up."

She does.

Erica's not stupid. She knows how Isaac feels about her, has always felt about her. She knows he hates it when she gets this way, when she gets—complacent. He hates when she talks about Futures. But that's the way she is, it's a part of her. It's something she can't shut down because it makes people uncomfortable. She has knowledge of the dangerous fathoms of destiny. She knows hers—has seen it. It's written in stone and every decision she makes only brings her closer to the inevitable.

She's the town crackpot.

Yet everyone always comes to her when they need—something. When they're at the end of their rope, desperate and anxious to see what lies ahead of them.

They can't. None of them can.

That's why they come to Erica because she _can_.

She's not stupid though. Her divine revelations don't come free, and her medication doesn't come cheap—with or without the assistance of the state.

Erica sighs and flicks the tip of her cigarette, watching as the ash floats down onto curb.

Scott swerves up beside them on his bike. He looks a little uptight and aggravated, but anxious all the same.

"Who pissed in your cornflakes?" Isaac smirks.

Scott just parks his bike, grumbling something about the reverse cowgirl and how he never gets what he wants.

Erica gags internally while Isaac frowns in confusion.

"Can we just get on with this? I might just stab myself in the eye if I have to hear you complain about you and Stilinski's sex life—or lack of," Erica says, throwing down her cigarette and crushing it under the heel of her sneaker.

Isaac whips his gaze at Scott and gives him a nice shove. "Dude—that's too personal," he complains.

Scott blushes but shrugs, scratching at the bride of his nose sheepishly. "Well, if I can stop being interrupted, you won't have to hear about it," he says. He turns his gaze to the house and his eyes search wordlessly.

"What is it?" Erica asks.

"Nothing," he mumbles. "Just—his parents are home."

"Duh. We already knew that, though," she says, still not seeing his point.

Scott tosses a frown towards her before turning back to the house, eyes bleeding gold and jumping around every angle of the house.

Erica crosses her arms and keeps her mouth shut, falling back against the car and tapping her foot restlessly.

"They're not alone. I can recognize one other voice but—there's…" he trails off with an agitated face. He sighs and turns to face them both. "Hunters."

"What—you can hear them?" Isaac asks curiously, turning his eyes to the house as well. "How do you know their hunters?"

"I just do. You're going to have to trust me," Scott replies and turns his back to them again. "We might have to tiptoe with this one, but I need to get a good scent on Danny if we're going to try and find him."

Erica and Isaac nod in agreement.

Fifteen seconds later, they're on the Mahealani doorstep, Scott between them as he knocks.

Kathryn Mahealani opens the door and she's just like Erica remembers when she was little and used to have play dates with Danny. All six feet of longs legs, curves and bleach blonde hair that made her blue eyes stand out all the more.

"Can I help you?" Kathryn asks with a kind smile.

"Yes," Scott says with an endearing smile of his own. "We are—friends of Danny. Uh—and also we're his partners for this group project. We got a little worried when he didn't come to school. We just came by to check up on him and—yeah."

Erica contains the eye roll and the hopeless sigh that wants to manifest.

"Oh, okay. Danny never mentioned anything about a group project but come on in," Kathryn says, making a sweeping gesture towards the living room.

Isaac, Erica and Scott all shuffle in and stand awkwardly in the living room where Antonia Mahealani, and two other people Erica doesn't recognize, are sitting. Erica can't help but to think that now that Danny's gotten older, he looks more and more like the spitting image of Antonia.

Antonia smiles and stands as Kathryn saddles up beside her.

"Sweetheart, this is Danny's group. They've got some kind of a project going on," Kathryn explains.

"Is that so? Well—" Antonia pauses as she takes a good look at Erica.

Erica internally curses. She knows that look. It means that Antonia actually remembers her.

"Erica? Is that you? I feel like it's been a decade," Antonia says, walking over and giving Erica a hug.

"Yeah—just about," Erica replies, awkwardly patting Antonia on the back.

Antonia pulls back, gripping Erica by the shoulders and turning her to and fro to get a good look. "Oh look at you. You've gotten so big," she says. "How's your mother? You know we kind of fell out of contact with each other when you and Danny graduated junior high."

"She's—good. Just, good—all around," Erica says with a synthetic smile.

"And you two are?" Antonia look to Isaac and Scott, who were watching the exchange with amusement, most likely not used to Erica going out of her way to be polite.

Erica will have to slay them later.

"Isaac," Isaac says with a small wave.

"Scott," Scott adds.

"You're all sophomores like Danny, right? You must know Boyd," Kathryn says, gesturing to Boyd. "This is Anthony Quinn and his son. They just moved to town and I guess someone must have tossed out our name because they're interested in our little brand of home decorating. FYI kids, if you ever meet anyone who's looking for some tasteful decorating, be sure to refer them to us."

"That's my wife for you, always ready to make a deal," Antonia smiles and it's both fond and exasperated.

Erica just lifts her eyebrows and nods.

Isaac rubs at his stomach and glances around the living room.

Scott—strangely enough, is in some kind of stare match with Boyd, who is smirking.

"So do you know when Danny's going to be back?" Erica asks.

"Unfortunately, no. Last I heard, he was lodging with Jackson down in Mendocino. They're supposed to be on some kind of retreat—no cell phones and what not," Antonia replies. "They should be back this weekend though."

"What kind of sixteen year old needs to go on a retreat?" Anthony questions. "I hardly think they have much to worry about at their age."

"Oh you'd be surprised," Kathryn says. "Kids have a great deal more that they have to deal with. And between all of us, and you didn't hear this from me, but poor Jackson found out from his parents that he was adopted. I can't imagine how he must have taken it."

Isaac, Erica and Scott share a look.

"Why don't I get you those portfolios I mentioned?" Antonia says to Anthony, scuttling off.

"Can I use the bathroom?" Erica asks.

"Sure. Up the stairs and down the hall," Kathryn directs with a graceful flick of her fingers.

Erica gives a stale smile and trudges over to the marble steps with an iron banister. Of course she bypasses the bathroom in favor of slinking towards Danny's room. She quietly closes the door behind her and sweeps her gaze around. She snorts and kicks at a pair of Danny's jeans that are lying haphazardly on the floor.

Danny was a total slob.

She slowly sways over to his dirty clothes hamper and bumps it with her hips, causing it to topple over and spill out onto the floor. She pushes the clothes around with her foot until she spies a sock. She makes a face as she picks it up and jams it in her purse. Then she hastily rubs her palm against her jeans as she glances around.

Erica pauses and frowns when she notices the open chat box on Danny's computer screen. Squinting her eyes, she quickly skims what little of the conversation she can see.

"Excuse me," Kathryn says, suddenly in the doorway.

Erica jumps and puts a hand to her chest. "Mrs. Mahealani," she gasps.

Kathryn frowns with disapproval.

"I—was just—Danny had borrowed a book, a science book, and I was looking for it," Erica lies, trying to get her heart rate down to a normal pace.

Kathryn glances around before her gaze returns to Erica. "While that's unfortunate, I'd appreciate it if you didn't enter my son's room unsupervised and without permission," she says. "I think you need to leave. You can speak with Danny when he returns."

Erica nods and slips past Kathryn when she moves out of the way. She jogs down the steps and signals Isaac and Scott.

"Well it was nice talking to you, Mrs. Mahealani," Scott says politely with a smile. He thumps Isaac on the shoulder. "I think we better get going."

"Sure thing. I'll tell Danny you stopped by," Antonia says as she passes Anthony and Boyd another portfolio.

"See you at school," Boyd says to Scott with a wink.

Scott's hand curls into a fist but he acknowledges the comment with a nod.

It's not until they're standing at the end of the drive does Erica notice Scott's claws.

"Hey, Dickhead. What's this," Isaac says, gesturing towards Scott's hand. "I thought you were over this. I thought you were controlling it."

"I am," Scott snaps, eyes flashing gold just to contradict himself. "I am, I just—that guy. He gets to me," he mutters, glancing back at the house. "They weren't here by coincidence."

Isaac snorts. "Duh. Who actually has an interest in interior decorating? Let alone a father and his son. What, did the wife not want to tag along? Don't females love that shit?" He looks at Erica with a smirk.

Erica gives him a sarcastic smile as she gives him two middle fingers.

Isaac just winks.

"Yeah well, it's safe to assume they must know that Danny's missing too," Scott decides, shuffling foot to foot. "Did you get anything, Erica?"

Erica throws the sock at his forehead.

"Could've just said yes," Scott grumbles as he leans over and swipes the sock off the ground.

"What's the fun in that?" Erica says as she fishes for another cigarette in her purse. "Come on. Let's just get to the woods."

"Woods?" Scott frowns.

"Just trust me. There are—"

" _Just some things you know_ ," Scott and Isaac finish with knowing grins.

Erica smiles as she makes the jerk-off hand gesture and tosses her hand towards their faces as though she was throwing invisible cum in their eyes.

Isaac and Scott just laugh, completely immune to her charms.

"Look, let's just get out of here. Thinks of this as a head start," Erica says. "I'll tell you exactly where you need to go."

Scott nods wordlessly.

"Come on," Erica says to Isaac, impatiently gesturing him towards the car.

"Popsicle stand blown," Isaac mutters as he rounds the other side of the car, unlocking the doors and climbing in.

Scott straddles his bike and Erica climbs in the car too.

Thirty minutes later and they're trudging through the woods with Scott sniffing at Danny's sock.

It's one of their best friendship moments, truly.

Erica snorts at the thought as flicks the last of her cigarette off and jams her hands under her armpits to warm them.

Isaac's kicking up dead leaves to keep himself amused.

Erica rolls her eyes.

"So how exactly do you know that we need to start here?" Isaac asks, glancing at her as they continue to follow Scott at a distance.

Scott's properly wolfed out, and though he's shown some control, they still keep a safe distance.

Erica shrugs and says, "Saw it with my mind's eye."

"You mean you dreamt it?" Isaac clarifies as he looks up towards the top of the trees to the gathering darkness of the sky.

"Dreams are relative and reflective. They're more to do with us than with anyone else," Erica replies, carefully stepping over a tree root. "Mind's eye is something entirely different."

Isaac still looks as if he doesn't understand, but she knew he might not. He reaches out with his arm and uses it as a bumper to stop her. Erica frowns but he points to Scott, who is crouched to the ground and pawing away dead leaves and dirt with his claws.

"He must have found something," a voice says from behind them.

Erica and Isaac spin around to see Derek Hale standing four feet away, hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket and eyes sharply focused on them. When he steps forward, Erica can feel her heart jack-rabbiting in her chest as she fists Isaac's shirt in her hand.

Derek slowly circles them once before he makes his way over to Scott.

Erica breathes a little easier when he turns his attention to the shoe that Scott's got clutched in his hands.

Isaac pats a comforting hand over the one she still has clutched in his shirt. She gives him a quick smile as he gestures his head to Scott and Derek. They walk closer and watch as Scott sniffs at the shoe. Now that they're closer, Erica notices that the shoe is covered in blood.

"It's Danny's," Scott confirms with a grave frown after he's shifted back to normal. "Smells like death."

"So he's dead," Isaac reasons as he scratches the back of his head.

"Can't say for sure," Scott mumbles as he turns the shoe over, fingers twitching. "Not without a body."

"Body'll turn up eventually if that is the case," Derek decides. "We need to move on then. This kid's a dead end."

"Maybe not," Erica counters and tries not to flinch when he focuses the brunt of his attention on her. "When I was in his room, I knocked over his laundry basket, which in turn jilted his desk, making his computer come on. He had a chat box open and he was messaging some guy named ' _alpha478_ '. Apparently, the night he disappeared, he was supposed to be meeting up with the guy at midnight at Club Dredd."

"I know that place," Scott says.

Erica smirks. "Interesting. It's anonymous sex bar," she says.

Isaac and Derek look at Scott, who flushes and shrugs, saying, "I used to go there from time to time. They have—good drinks. Anyway, can we please stay on subject?"

"Right," Erica says. "These circumstances are connected."

"What's your point?" Derek asks, giving Erica a patiently stoic look.

"My point is that I don't think what happened to Danny was just random coincidence. I think maybe he might've been on the Alpha's shit list from the start. But the thing is, he wasn't at the bar at midnight like he was supposed to be," Erica explains.

"He was comforting Lydia instead," Isaac says, already catching on.

"What's the first thing a girl like Lydia would want to do after a bad break up?" Erica asks rhetorically. "Get ice cream and a really crappy chick flick. But she's too hot-to-trot to do it by herself, so she picks up her gay best friend and swindles him into joining her with big disgusting crocodile tears."

"Danny was supposed to be with Jackson so his parents didn't know he went somewhere else," Scott says with a frown. "Which means he and Jackson were supposed to leave for whatever retreat that same night. But—why hasn't Jackson said anything?"

"Maybe the ' _retreat_ ' was just a cover for something else," Erica points out. "Which kind of clarifies the last message."

Isaac, Scott and Derek look at her expectantly.

"It said, and I quote, ' _I can't wait for our week together in Napa Valley—gives us a chance to get to know each other_.' End quote," Erica says. "Friends helping friends lie right? Jackson goes off wherever he wants and Danny gets to do his own thing. That's the beauty of a perfectly cultivated cover story."

"Yeah but what does Jackson need a cover story for?" Isaac questions.

Erica shrugs because she really doesn't know what goes inside of the cocky asshole's head. He probably went off to Las Vegas or something.

"Do you really think what Mrs. Mahealani said was true, then? About Jackson finding out he was adopted?" Scott asks.

"Could be, but we don't know. The only one with the real answers is Lydia, but she's drugged out of her mind. We'd be better of talking to a can of soup," Isaac states.

Derek sighs and shakes his head. "Dead ends. That's great," he says sarcastically.

"I don't see you doing anything," Isaac mutters.

Derek glares at him.

Isaac shuts up but he's still got his bitchface on.

"Either you wait till Lydia sobers or when this Jackson returns, or when Danny's body turns up to get some answers," Derek decides, like he's running things. "Other than that, just keep your eyes peeled and your ears open." And with that said, he turns away and starts walking off.

"Derek," Scott calls.

Derek pauses.

"Are we going to have to have a talk about what happened?"

Derek turns his head and the corner of his mouth curls slightly. "Why Scott? Did I step on your toes?"

Scott growls.

"I'll be in touch," Derek says, and disappears without another word.

Isaac walks up to Scott, who's still staring in the direction that Derek went. "So…what was that all about?"

Scott just shakes his head and walks in the opposite direction.

Erica looks down at the bloodied shoe lying at her feet.

"You ready to go?" Isaac asks, touching his hand to her elbow.

"He's lying," Erica says after a while.

"Who? Derek?"

"Yeah—and the worst part is that Scott knows he is too," Erica says, turning and walking in the direction of Isaac's car. "But I'm guessing like us, he doesn't know why."

888

They were supposed to be talking. Seriously. They were.

It's not all Stiles's fault.

It's not.

Every time Stiles gets geared up to ask some questions, Scott gets this look on his face like he'd rather be sucking on Stiles's tongue than talking about his, ahem, preternatural side. Then he just does. He presses Stiles against the lockers in the hallway, or the locker room (depending on if Stiles tries to catch him after practice or a game), or into the side of his jeep or on top of Stiles's bed. And the worst part is Stiles _lets_ him instead of digging his heels in and demanding answers.

Stiles doesn't think that Scott is purposefully avoiding the conversation. He really just seems to be genuinely happy that Stiles knows about what he is and is still around and is right in front of him with no plans of going anywhere else. That simple revelation alone makes Scott handsy and more interested in kissing the living daylights out of Stiles instead of talking.

Which, lets be honest, Stiles is not complaining about. He always pushes the conversation back and makes a mental note to ask later—no shame in indulging himself when Scott so willingly licks his way inside of his mouth and gropes him like that's all he ever wants to do with his hands. They haven't had sex yet, the timing is always off and there's always some kind of interruption.

Stiles is gritting his teeth about that. Really. It's getting ridiculous. He's at the point where he wants to flip over tables and say, fuck it, dragging Scott off to the nearest motel so their bodies can have that long overdue discussion they've been meaning to have.

And Boyd.

Goddamn Boyd.

He doesn't make it any better by hanging all over Stiles, or making snide comments about how uptight Stiles is when his needs aren't being met. Scott looks like he's going to murder Boyd any day now or at least hurt him severely, but he actually refrains from doing such. Stiles doesn't blame him, he's glad Scott is showing self-control. He's not sure what Boyd's into but he certainly doesn't want his boyfriend finding out because Boyd pushed him too far, provoking the more animalistic side out as a result.

Which presents another problem. Stiles still isn't completely sure what his family is mixed up in. He doesn't want to confront them, but then again, he really wants answers. He finds himself paying more attention to the way his dad acts or the way his Aunt Kate continually has whispered conversations with his mother. It certainly doesn't slip his notice when his father and his aunt disappear at odd hours of the night and reappear the next morning.

Allison still doesn't know and Stiles is still debating whether or not he wants to tell her. He probably will, once he's got all his facts straight. Which means, first things first. He'll have to get some answers from Scott about a few things. No amount of tongue or groping or puppy dog eyes will deter him from this endeavor. So he bucks up and spends all of Friday ignoring and avoiding Scott, weaning himself off of Scott's affection for the greater good. This of course, does not go unnoticed. Scott attempts to get his attention all day. All a part of the plan as well.

When school ends, he makes a beeline for his jeep and shoots Scott a text, asking him to come over to his house and stick around afterwards. He also casually adds that if Scott wanted, he could spend the weekend, his parents have given them the green light. He doesn't specify by saying that it was his mother that okayed it and had cowed his father into okaying it as well.

There had been some steep compromises—meaning that Allison's boyfriend got to spend the weekend too. His dad said that it was only fair. His mother hadn't liked it but she relented.

Scott didn't hesitate in replying that he would be there, and that he'd run it by his mom and pack.

Stiles parks his jeep in the second garage and stealthy avoids his Aunt Kate so he can drop off his book bag in his room. They're the only ones home. Allison was most likely with Matt and his parents were most likely grocery shopping in preparation for all the extra mouths joining them over the weekend. He shrugs off his hoodie and kicks off his shoes before he turns to exit his room. He jogs down the steps and rounds the corner, jumping in surprise when he sees his Aunt Kate there, leaning against the wall with a vacant smile.

"What's going on, Aunt?" Stiles says casually as he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocks forward on his heels.

Kate's eyes roam over him, taking special care to linger on his upper body, and Stiles curses his tendency to wear tight shirts on occasion.

Alright, so this time it hadn't been a coincidence. Scott was coming over after all.

"You're a good boy, Stiles," Kate says, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes. "Right?"

"I'd like to think so," Stiles says with a meager shrug, internally wondering where this was all going.

"Well—I'd like to think so too," Kate drawls, dropping her gaze down to her immaculately manicured finger nails. "You know," she continues, just as laid-back as can be. "Maybe you and I have different definitions of good. Maybe I should have gone with something a little more—direct. Do I need to be direct with you, Stiles?"

Stiles sighs and looks up towards the ceiling. "I don't know, Aunt Kate. I have varying ideas about what you might be trying to say to me," he replies, trying not to get annoyed.

"I just want to know, if you're a good boy," Kate says with that vacant smile. She finger-combs her blonde hair up into a pony tail and uses the holder on her small wrist to keep it altogether. She drops her hands when she's done. "Let me be clear, just so you know where I stand on the subject. Good boys are well-behaved. Good boys don't lie to the people they love. Good boys don't raid other people's belongings, and if they did, they wouldn't be so sloppy about it and say—forget to zip up the duffle bag they'd been rifling through. And good boys certainly wouldn't take things that do not belong to them."

Stiles swallows slowly.

Kate's vacant smile morphs into a predatory smirk as she stalks closer. "So I'll ask you one more time, Stiles," she says, cornering him into the banister and putting her hands on either side of his body, curling her fingers around the staircase pressed against his back. "Are you, a good, boy?" she says with deliberate punctuation.

Stiles looks off at a point over her shoulder as his jaw tenses.

Kate huffs a laugh and firmly grips the hair on his crown. "Answer me, Stiles," she says quietly as she eyes lower and traces over him.

"No," he grits out, trying his best not squirm as her gaze burns into his skin.

"No," Kate agrees. "You're not a good boy."

"I'm sorry for going through your things," Stiles says, squirming.

"You know I'm just sorry that we even have to have this conversation," she replies, cocking her head as she traces her fingers over his bottom lip. "You have such a pretty mouth," she whispers, leaning in.

Stiles turns his head away.

Kate smiles. "We used to have such fun together. You remember that, don't you Stiles? How we used to play together when Allison wasn't around, hm?"

Stiles swallows and looks everywhere but her as his eyes mist over.

"You are just so goddamn pretty, so I guess I'll just have to let your little discretion slide," Kate says before she backs off of him. "Don't fucking touch my things again, Stiles," and then she's gone.

Stiles exhales shakily when she disappears into the kitchen. He swallows and blinks away the wetness in his eyes. He quickly makes his way over to the basement door, slamming it shut behind him and stomping down the steps. He picks his drumsticks from off the floor and plops down in stool behind his drum set.

When the painful memories start to resurface and the unbearable feelings that follow, he does what he has always done. He pushes his pain deep down, right in the space where he hides all his other hurts, his insecurities and fears. Then he shuts that part of himself off and leaves it as though it never happened.

He inhales carefully, spinning his drumstick in one hand as he taps lightly against the cymbal. He gets a slow rhythm going until he's swept up into an entire beat. He plays and plays until he feels the pounding of his drumsticks inside his own head. He bites down with every thump and bang, taking the tempo into himself and living it. He plays so hard and so loud that he can't even hear his own thoughts anymore.

That's just the way he wants it.

Stiles comes up for air sometime later. His heart is writhing inside of his ribcage and he's covered in sweat but he's sufficiently relaxed, even though he's gasping like a fish out of water. He's so hot and his lungs are burning—his hands have definitely gone numb. He stands with a rough sigh and peels his t-shirt off, balling it up and tossing it off to the side. He jumps in surprise when he notices Scott sitting at the base of the stairs.

Scott smiles softly as he stands and approaches him, holding out a bottle of water as an offering.

Stiles takes it wordlessly and twists off the top, practically inhaling the whole bottle.

Scott jams his hands into the pocket of his jeans and watches him quietly.

"How long you been down here?" Stiles asks, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Probably as long as you," he admits. "More or less."

Stiles frowns and twists the cap back onto his bottle.

"You were, uh—really engrossed," Scott says, and there's a question in his eyes.

Stiles shrugs and doesn't say anything.

Scott looks a little concerned. He eyes Stiles for a moment, opening his mouth to say something but then stops, seeming to think better of it. He ducks his head and peers up at Stiles through lowered lashes and says, "I didn't know you played the drums. You're pretty good."

Stiles blinks at him before he grins. "Pretty good?" He playfully whacks Scott over the head with his empty bottle. "Let's try that again, and this time, you should say something like, ' _Stiles, you are awesome and a Drum God. How do I become you?_ '"

"Have I ever mentioned how modest you are?" Scott laughs.

"Not nearly enough," Stiles counters with a slow grin.

"Hm," Scott says, hooking his fingers in Stiles's belt loops and tugging him closer. "I could just show you."

Stiles nods, leaning in before he quickly jumps back. "Oh no you don't! I didn't summon you here just so you can stick your tongue down my throat. We are going to talk," he states firmly.

"Talk?" Scott says with a disappointed frown.

"Yes," Stiles hisses, pushing Scott back until he plops back down on the steps. Then he takes a few deliberate steps back. Then he drops down to the floor and tucks his leg under him, resting his chin on top of his folded hands. "Now, explain everything to me like I'm three and I'll hold my questions off until the end."

888

Boyd hates Beacon Hills. It's small and quiet and the people are obnoxiously ignorant. He's got no patience for it. The only thing that keeps him amused is picking with Stiles and his chump of a boyfriend, Scott. Outside of that, everything else has been incredibly boring.

He thought when they'd packed up and shipped out from Alaska that he'd at least get to see some action. From what Mr. Argent has told his dad, Beacon Hills had themselves an Alpha problem. Boyd had been more than ready to join up with Mr. Argent and his psychotic sister Kate to take down the beast, right along with its little minions.

His father, however, wasn't so quick to action like he was. He liked to take his time, get his facts straight, look at every angle of the situation. It drove Boyd to bouts of restlessness that made him long to see some action. Ever since he'd taken down his first werewolf three months ago, he'd wanted nothing but all that came with living the life of a Hunter. It's too bad Stiles had no clue, he was really missing out. Then again, Boyd can be patient. When Mr. Argent does decide to break it to him, he'd be right there, ready to take Stiles under his wings.

Together they'd be a force to be reckoned with. Stiles is smart and had always been smart. Boyd could use his genius. Boyd could use a lot of things from Stiles.

"Pay attention," his father scolds, cuffing him on the back of his head. "Always be on your guard."

Boyd nods as they stepped onto the old rickety porch of the decrepit Hale house.

"You focus your mind, like I always tell you. Do not let your thoughts wander," his father continues as he pushes open the front door. "I've seen too many men die like that. You understand?"

"Yes," Boyd responds as they step through the threshold.

His father turns and points his flashlight at the top of the steps. "I know you're here, and I know you can hear us. I've got some questions for you and this would be easier if we can talk face to face," he calls out. He waves his hand at Boyd.

Boyd lifts the shotgun in preparation.

"What exactly do we need to talk about?" a gruff voice answers, somewhere in the darkness of upstairs.

"I think you know," Anthony responds. "You're gonna tell me what happened to that boy."

Derek Hale steps out from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with electrified blue.

Boyd tightens his jaw and the grip he has on his shotgun as he aims it right in the middle of the beta's chest.

"I know as much as you do," Derek replies flatly.

"How about you tell me how much that is so I can make a comparison," Anthony responds, shining the light right on Derek's face.

Derek stares at them with a bored expression.

"The Alpha?" Anthony says, redirecting his questions. "He's causing a lot of problems for all the innocents here in Beacon Hills. We aren't just going to let that slide. You'd be smarter to tell me who he is and how I can find him."

"If I knew that, I wouldn't waste my time telling you when I could take care of him myself," Derek counters.

"But you haven't," Anthony points out. "Is it because you don't know?"

"I don't pretend to be stupid," Derek replies, flashing a bit of fang.

"Hm, well that just poses a problem for us all," Anthony decides and glances at his son. "You're not a hard man to find, Derek. Just something to keep in mind."

"I think you two better show yourselves out," Derek says and steps back, letting the shadows swallow him up again.

Boyd glances at his dad who nods and indicates to the door with an inclination of his head. Neither of them bother closing the door behind them when they leave out.

"That was a waste of time," Boyd complains as they trek through the woods, back in the direction they came.

"I wouldn't say that," Anthony replies. "It bothers me that my own son feeds his energy to action rather than to discernment, because if you did you would know that Hale was lying."

"He was?" Boyd shoulders the shotgun in confusion.

Anthony nods to confirm it. "He knows exactly who the Alpha is. I just can't, for the life of me, understand why he's protecting him. Even when the Alpha is the one responsible for his sister's death."

Boyd just shakes his head with a shrug. He didn't have a clue either.

888

"I don't know," Stiles says, two hours later. His hands are tucked behind his head as he lies on the basement floor with his gaze fixed to the ceiling. "Do you think he's lying?"

"I think he's up to something," Scott admits. "I think he knows a lot more than he lets on."

Stiles sits so he can look directly at Scott, who's leaning back against the stairs on his elbows. "That's awful what happened to Danny," he says.

"Yeah," Scott agrees.

"You think maybe—" Stiles pauses. "I mean you said that the reason the Alpha bit you was because he wanted you to be apart of his pack. What if it's the same with Danny?"

"I don't know. It's possible," Scott says.

"Think about. It fits the timeline perfectly. Around the time that Laura dies, the Alpha shows up and he bites you. I've read stuff like this. He must have killed Laura Hale with the intention of becoming Alpha, and because you were stumbling around in the forest at the time, you triggered one of the Alpha's basic urges," Stiles says. "To build a pack."

"So I was just a spur of the moment candidate?" Scott deducts with a thoughtful frown. "Why hasn't he tried to call me out?"

"Maybe you're resisting the pull. Omegas can do that," Stiles explains.

"Omega?" Scott lifts an eyebrow.

"Wow. You are so lucky you have me," Stiles says with a fond shake of his head. "Omega. The Lone Wolf," he clarifies. "You don't just become one because you want to be. It's almost instinctive. You don't have to be born werewolf to be born with the potential. It lays dormant inside until something like, getting bit by an Alpha, activates it. I've read that Omegas become Omegas just for the simple fact that they've got stronger ties of loyalty elsewhere. Maybe with you it's your family and friends."

Scott nods, seeming to think that over.

"Which makes the situation even more difficult for the Alpha, because he must realize that too. Hence, he was a lot more careful when he scoped Danny out," Stiles reasons and then smiles. "And I totally figured this out without my Adderall. Score one for Stiles."

Scott smiles fondly.

"You should let me research more about this. I could figure some things out for you, especially now that I have all the facts," Stiles says, standing to his feet. "I could help you guys find the Alpha—or at least do my best to push you in the right direction.

Scott frowns. "I don't want you getting involved," he says.

"Then stop dating me," Stiles retorts. "Because as long as we're together, I'm involved in every part of this. You will not keep me in the dark. You need my expertise."

Scott makes a face like he doesn't like it but he doesn't try to argue.

"So did your mom say it was okay for you to spend the weekend?" Stiles asks, stretching his hands towards the ceiling.

"Yeah," Scott says distractedly, eyes tracing over Stiles's skin.

Stiles looks down at himself and rolls his eyes when he remembers he doesn't have a shirt on. He stalks forward and purposefully brushes past Scott on the way up the steps. He smiles secretly as Scott stumbles after him, practically molding himself to Stiles's back as they venture up to his room.

His dresser rattles when Scott corners him against it, determined to kiss the living daylights out of him.

"Do don't that again," Scott mutters, letting his hands wander all over Stiles's exposed skin.

"Do what?" Stiles pants distractedly as he cocks his head to give Scott better access to his neck.

"Ignore me," Scott grunts, bumping his hips into Stiles's and they both groan at the friction. "You ignored me all day. Drove me crazy."

"Yeah, well," Stiles cups his hands over Scotts shoulder and goes up easily when Scott hoists him onto the edge of his dresser. "I was proving a point."

Scott just mutters something unintelligible and leans up to take Stiles's mouth again. The rest of the conversation dies to wandering hands and frantic lips.

They don't get any further than second base, mainly because his sister waltzes into his room unannounced and cheerfully exclaims that dinner is ready.

Stiles throws a shoe at her head and misses.

Dinner is incredibly awkward in the way that it's not awkward.

His Aunt Kate and his mother spend most of it fawning over Scott. It's equally horrifying and amusing.

His dad just engrosses himself in a conversation with Matt about some kind of football team.

Allison smiles at him from across the table and sends him text messages that make him laugh out loud, garnering the attention of everyone at the table. He simply waves it off and quickly sends Allison a reply that will make her laugh just as hard in retaliation.

Dinner is strangely peaceful and not as bad as it was last time, so Stiles is counting his blessings.

His mother serves peach cobbler and vanilla ice cream for dessert.

Stiles licks at his spoon and peers over at Scott teasingly while they play footsies under the table.

His father glares at them both until they stop and by the end of it all, he makes a random announcement about the new ' _open-door policy_ ' that will be in effect so long as their boyfriends are to stay in their rooms.

Allison and Stiles simultaneously huff in irritation but they both know better than to argue.

Everyone says their goodnights and they all retreat to their rooms.

Stiles yawns as he changes into a pair of pajamas and flops down on his bed. Scott is getting changed in the bathroom, so while he waits, he takes the right side of the bed (his favorite side) and curls up around a pillow as he peers out the window up into the cloudy sky.

Scott flicks off the bathroom light and climbs into bed with him.

Stiles turns just as Scott lifts a bag of milkway bites and shakes them.

"To make up for the ones I ate," he explains as he pulls it open.

Stiles gives him a chaste kiss before he dunks his hand inside the bag and pulls out a handful.

They spend the next few moments chewing silently.

"You know," Stiles says quietly as he pops another in his mouth. "I'd totally blow you if my bedroom door wasn't open."

Scott chokes and sits up immediately, thumping at his chest.

Stiles chuckles and turns on his side, facing away from Scott with a satisfied smile. "Goodnight."

" _Stiles_ …"

He is not even surprised when they spend the next few minutes giggling like idiots while they playfully wrestle and roll around in his bed.

"Simmer down in there!" Chris shouts from down the hall before slamming his door shut again.

Stiles and Scott look at each other before laughing quietly, shoving at one another as they crawl up the bed.

Stiles sighs and rubs at the corner of his eyes as Scott pulls him in close and curls his arm over his waist. Stiles laces their fingers together and closes his eyes, concentrating on Scott's soft inhales and exhales.

Scott falls asleep before he does, head tucked firmly between Stiles's neck and shoulder.

Stiles is well on his way to falling asleep when his phone vibrates on his nightstand. Careful not to wake Scott, he reaches over and swipes it off, squinting his eyes when the screen light glares at him.

_You and I are going shopping tomorrow. –Lydia_

_Something wrong with Allison? –Stiles_

_No, why? She can come along too. –Lydia_

_How did you even get my number? How do I even have yours? –Stiles_

_Not important. Be ready. I'm picking you guys up at ten. –Lydia_

_In the morning? No thanks. Besides, Scott's over and I was planning on spending time with him. –Stiles_

_Yes in the morning. And bring Scott too if you must but you AREcoming with me. Outside of Jackson and Danny, you and Allison are my only friends. Don't make me beg, it's so unbecoming. –Lydia_

_Fine. –Stiles_

_:)) –Lydia_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guh. I'mma go pass out now. This took some effort. And good news guys, I've negotiated with my Muse and I can proudly confirm a sequel for this. I am too excited. Big plans are coming so you guys pay attention to every detail.
> 
> Oh, and if you love me or if you just tolerate me, please tell me what you think and comment on this chapter. I'm a sucker for long comment btw. Hint-tah-tee-hint-hint. ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I probably would have posted sooner if it hadn't been for the fact that I just recently discovered tumblr (if you wanna see why, there's a link in my profile) and have been spending all my time on there. No worries though, I'm learning balance. I'm excited for the upcoming chapters and the sequel. Like a lot.
> 
> Thoughts?

_A part of kindness consists in loving people more than they deserve._

**-Joseph Joubert Read**

888

Stiles wakes to the sound of Allison's dorky snickering. Actually, he wakes to the stink of marker and the sensation of something poking at his cheeks, his forehead, his lips, his chest and his stomach. His eyes flutter open and there are hushed whispers, followed by more giggles and Stiles begins to think that Allison isn't alone. His vision comes into focus and he sees Matt and Allison hovering over him, one on each side, quickly hiding their hands behind their backs and smiling evilly down at him like a bunch of freaks.

Shouting in surprise and confusion, at this point, is severely warranted.

Allison laughs as she grabs Matt's arm and scrambles off the bed and out the door.

No.

She actually skips out, rubber ducky pajama bottoms, white tank top and all. Matt's got nothing but a pair of grey basketball shorts and no shirt and Stiles does not  _even_ care because he's pretty sure those fucking idiots did something to his body.

While he was  _sleep._

Stiles shudders, feeling unnaturally violated as he pries himself from his sheets and staggers to the bathroom.

He's absolutely sure that the cry of outrage he gives when he sees his reflection is completely justified. He vaguely acknowledges the laughter that sounds off in response in the hall and the sound of darting steps retreating.

Those twits have written ' _Mrs. McCall_ ' all over his skin! In red fucking marker!

All. Over.  _His_.  **Skin.**

And one of them has even gone through the trouble to put red lipstick on his lips. He's gonna take a shot in the dark and say it was Allison.

She will burn.

Motherfucking  _burn_.

And Stiles will have the most glorious glitter parade as he dances over her grave.

"Whoa."

Stiles scowls at Scott, who's leaning into the doorway of his bathroom with an amused smile. He looks happily awake and dressed for the day ahead. His face is open, all sincerity, all genuineness and he looks every bit of young as he seems. Stiles doesn't even know how he always manages that, even with everything that's happened to him. He wants to ask. He wants to ask so that he can manage the same lightheartedness Scott does. But he doesn't—because being with Scott, just  _having_ him is enough and that feeling alone continues to baffle Stiles.

Scott's eyebrows furrow and he angles his body in the doorway as he drums his fingers against the frame. A smile slowly works its way across his lips and he looks Stiles in the eyes. "You're happy," he points out, seeming pleased with the idea and the mere fact that he can identify such a thing.

"Huh?" Stiles says, rubbing a hand down the top of his head.

"Happy. You smell happy—irritated, but happy," Scott clarifies as his smile widens further. "That happens a lot when I'm around," he continues, going for modest and failing.

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes fondly.

"No, I'm serious," Scott says. "Sometimes, when you don't know that I'm there, or, whenever you think no one's looking—you smell sad. Lonely," he explains carefully. "I'd ask, but the more that I start to figure you out, the more I know you wouldn't tell me if I asked."

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that, what to do with that.

Scott twists his mouth and jams his hands into the pocket of his jeans as he watches Stiles anxiously.

"You left me vulnerable, you know," Stiles says, pointedly changing the subject. "My sister and her stupid boyfriend have carved their names at the top of my shit list. Matt just lost major cool points. Just—look at this," he says, doing a sweeping gesture with his hand down his body.

Scott looks down and he tries for a straight face.

Stiles is not so easily fooled.

"Well—it's no wonder Allison and Matt booked it down the steps," Scott says as he squints his eyes at Stiles. He seems to comprehend what's been graffitied all over Stiles's ivory skin because his smile turns sunshiny.

"Oh don't  _even_ ," Stiles hisses warningly, yanking one of his hand towels off the rack and turning on the faucet so he can scrub at his skin. "You do not get to be  _anything_ about this," he mutters, attacking his chest with fervor and sighing in relief when the markings disappear easily.

Scott chuckles and his eyes twinkle. "If it's any consolation, I like it," he says and steps inside, walking closer until he's pressed into Stiles's side.

"You would," Stiles grumbles.

"I do," Scott confirms, tucking his face in the side of Stiles's neck before pulling back with a frown. "You smell like Matt."

"And Allison," Stiles adds as he swabs the wet towel across his stomach.

"And Allison," Scott echoes faintly, partially distracted. "But not enough like me," he adds. "I don't like it."

Stiles mutters something unintelligible and resists the urge to elbow Scott because fuck  _this_. He's the one that doesn't like this. Not one bit. Not even marginally. His sister will have to pay. He will have his retribution, damn it!

He's already mentally writing the eulogy speech he'll say at her funeral.

_Allison was a kind soul, but she also stupid. Her stupidity caused her to act irrationally and therefore was the cause for her untimely death…_

"You smell frustrated again," Scott notes with a hint of amusement as he leans his hip against the edge of the sink. "At least it's not aimed at me this time."

"You can just shut up over there," Stiles responds as he dips his towel under the faucet.

"Don't be such a thundercloud," Scott snickers, ducking in quickly to kiss him when Stiles turns to glare at him fully. When he pulls back, Stiles notices that Scott's lips are stained red by the lipstick on his own lips and that should not be hot but it kind of is. "Better?" he asks, his brown eyes gleaming playfully.

Stiles drops his towel and cups his hands around the base of Scott's neck, pulling him back in to prolong the kiss. Scott comes easily and lets Stiles take control.

Stiles spends the next few minutes forgetting about his anger and his justified revenge because he's too busy shoving his tongue in Scott's mouth and seeing how much more he can stain Scott's lips.

"I think," Stiles pants sometime later when he finally pulls back and eyes Scott's lip-stained flushed mouth. "I found a new kink."

"Oh yeah?" Scott breathes, resting his hands on Stiles's waist.

"Uh-huh," Stiles murmurs, darting his tongue out and flicking it over the swell of Scott's bottom lip.

"Hm, you should hurry up and shower. Your mom and your aunt made waffles. I'll save you some," Scott says with one last kiss. Then he turns to leave. "Think of me," he adds, deviously.

"Tease," Stiles groans, throwing his wet towel at the back of Scott's head. But Scott and his stupid reflexes stop the towel from making impact. He briefly contemplates running after Scott and hopping on his back, but his stomach gurgles in protest and so he's forced to take the high road and shower.

Because waffles.

He's dressed and cleaned and ready to go, bounding down the steps in search of food and more Scott. Instead he's greeted by the mildly amusing sight of Lydia in his kitchen, fawning all over his dad, who looks uncomfortable and way too relieved to see him.

"Stiles, I'm glad you're here. You can keep your friend company," Chris says, easing away from Lydia and approaching him. "Get that girl out of my house before your mother kills her," he mutters before disappearing.

Stiles watches him go before he hops on one of the island stools and drags, what he assumes is the plate Scott saved for him, closer.

Lydia eyes him and simultaneously texts at the same time. "Your dad's hot," she says offhandedly.

"I hope that was a question," Stiles replies.

"It was a statement," Lydia says airily, pulling out a small compact mirror to reapply some lip-gloss. "Is he seeing anyone?"

"Yeah. My mom," Stiles says, standing and shoving his plate in the microwave.

Lydia frowns thoughtfully and cocks her head. "I thought that was his sister," she says.

"One of them was," Stiles replies. "The redhead? Not so much."

"Oh," Lydia says simply, snapping her compact mirror shut and shoving it back in her black designer bag. "She's scary sexy. Like your dad. They look good together."

"Oh my God, we are not having this conversation. This conversation is not happening. It never happened," Stiles rambles, resisting the urge to gag as he sits back down with his plate. "Where's everyone?" he says around a forkful of his waffles, which he's drowned in butter and syrup—the way he likes it best.

Lydia makes a face but she doesn't comment on his appalling table manners. Instead, she says, "Allison and Matt are upstairs getting ready, and Scott is helping your mom grab a water cooler from the basement or something." She cocks her head again as she eyes him. "You look good. Not too laidback but appropriate enough to shop in. I approve," she decides.

Stiles snorts and continues his chewing.

Lydia flips her hair over her shoulder as she rounds the island counter and presses into his side. "Smile!" she exclaims, making that obnoxious duck face hot girls usually make when they take a picture.

Stiles just sticks out his food-covered tongue as Lydia holds her phone over them and snaps a few pictures.

Lydia pulls her hand back down to peer at it and frowns. "Seriously, Stiles? So improper," she mutters haughtily.

Stiles just shrugs and jams another forkful of food in his mouth. "What are you taking my picture for anyway?" he asks.

"Memories, duh. I keep scrapbooks for all my most important moments," Lydia says cheerfully. "And today, we are going to be spending some recreational time together for the first time. Needs to be documented."

"If you say so," Stiles simply says. "Still don't see why you can't just take Allison—"

"I didn't ask Allison, I asked you," Lydia interjects. "And you agreed so your argument is invalid." She curls the end of her hair around her finger as she cocks her head and looks around his kitchen. "Besides, I wouldn't be caught dead shopping by myself. It's pathetic."

"Not really," Stiles disagrees.

"Yes. It is," Lydia says firmly, dropping her hand to her waist. "Shopping is so much better with company. I always have more fun when someone's there to tell me how good I look in everything."

"And that someone is me?" Stiles asks with an arched eyebrow.

Lydia matches his stare. "Look me in the eye right now and tell me you don't find me attractive," she challenges.

Stiles eyes her for a moment, opens his mouth and sticks the last bite of waffles in his mouth instead.

"And that's what I thought." Lydia grins smugly, picking up her phone to start texting again.

Scott appears with a water cooler on his shoulder. He carefully sits the tub in front of the dishwasher.

"My mom's got you doing her bidding now?" Stiles says as he go to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water.

Scott shrugs and smiles. "It's nothing I don't already do for my own mom," he replies.

"Did she tell you to put it right there?" Stiles asks as he twists the cap off his bottle.

"Yeah, why? Should I put it somewhere else?" Scott asks with a sincere frown.

"Nope. If she didn't tell you anything else, I'd just leave it there," Stiles says, taking a swallow of his water. "I'm ready to go when you guys are."

Lydia stands and drapes the strap of her designer bag over the inside crease of her elbow.

Stiles yells, "Allison! Let's go!"

"Coming!"

"We're going to leave you! Stop having sex with Matt! I'm going to tell dad!"

"Shut  _up_ , Stiles!"

"Nobody wants to wait for you!" Stiles shouts as the three of them walk to the front door.

"Shut up! We're coming!" Allison shouts back.

"Stop yelling in my house!" Victoria snaps from somewhere upstairs.

"Okay! No more shouting!" Stiles yells, just to mess with his mom. He's not sure, but he could swear he heard a responding sigh.

Two seconds later, Allison and Matt come bounding down the steps, hands interlaced. Allison glares at Stiles but Stiles just flips her off. He's still hasn't forgiven her for her little indiscretion this morning.

As they all shuffle out the front door, they decide to take two cars. Allison rides with Matt in his car and Scott and Stiles go with Lydia in hers. Twenty minutes later, they're parking side by side in the theater parking lot section of Beacon Hills Mall.

They climb out and Lydia asserts herself as the designated leader to their newly established friendship pack. Matt drapes his arm over Allison's shoulder and hauls her closer, whispering things against her dark hair that makes her smile and laugh and reply happily.

Scott touches a hand to Stiles's elbow before sliding his fingers down to lace between Stiles's.

Stiles grins at him and squeezes their fingers together as they fall behind Lydia and follow her to one of the entrances.

They get stopped from walking through by some dude wearing a pretzel outfit, handing out free bags of pretzel sticks to promote the new pretzel stand that opens up.

Stiles, not being one to turn down free food, happily grabs a bag for himself.

"Uh, no," Lydia declines, lifting a hand when Pretzel Dude tries to hand her one. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Awe come on, Lydia, its actually pretty good," Allison offers as she takes a pretzel stick from Matt's bag.

"Yeah—good for someone who doesn't care about the amount of carbs these sodium loaded sticks carry," Lydia says. She sniffs and flips her red hair over her shoulder. "I'll pass," she repeats and continues a graceful stride through the glass doors. "Coming?"

Stiles chews and sends Allison a look. She snorts and shrugs, rolling her eyes and making a shooing motion with her hands.

They all follow after Lydia.

Stiles looks around and takes it all in. It's a hugely impressive mall, not the biggest he's ever seen or been to but still impressive nonetheless. It's Saturday, so there's a fairly large crowd of people slinking around. The mall has at least three floors and Stiles tries not to guesstimate where a candy store might be in all of that.

He fails.

Lydia strides on and the rest of them just fall behind. It's fairly obvious she knows this mall like the back of her hand because she cuts a few corners and surpasses a few sections to go straight to the lingerie store.

Allison scurries away from Matt to join Lydia as she peruses through some bright color sets of underwear.

Apparently there's some kind of annual sale happening or something, Stiles does not  _even_ care. He tugs Scott over to the negligée section and yanks a white corset off the rack, holding it to his body.

"Look at all the laces. Now that can be fun," Stiles teases as he bats his eyelashes at Scott. "I don't know, what do you think?"

"White's not really your color," Scott admits with a grin, reaching out and sliding his fingertips down the silk material. "Feels good though."

Stiles snorts and puts it back. "I don't know what's more interesting. The fact that you think about what colors look good on me or that you obviously could picture me in this. How do you know I wasn't picking it out for you?" he says, easing over to a red and black corset, turning it to and fro.

"Don't get what's interesting about that," Scott says with a shrug as he watches Stiles. "I usually picture you naked if we're being honest."

Stiles chokes and laughs in utter surprise, shoving at Scott's shoulder. "Dude! You can't keep shocking me like that. My heart—oh man," he says as he laughs.

Scott grins happily.

Stiles simmers down and exhales. He presses the red and black corset against him. "What about this one? It's got more laces than the other one but—more my color right?" he asks.

Scott cocks his head, like he's considering it carefully, and that's makes Stiles heart race slightly.

God, what are they even doing?

Scott reaches out and like before, he traces his fingertips over the silk material as his eyebrows furrow thoroughly.

Stiles drops his gaze to the hand and watches as it slides lower.

Scott makes a thoughtful sound as he steps in closer until the corset is sandwiched between them. With his lips pressed to Stiles's ear, he says, "I like this one."

"Oh yeah?" Stiles breathes, ignoring the looks the others are sending them. He feels Scott nod. "Could be easy to get on—little harder to get off," he mutters as Scott coils his fingers around his waist.

"I'd just use my claws," Scott whispers like a heated promise before pulling away completely. He tucks his hands in his pockets as he cocks his head and eyes Stiles.

Stiles is kind of standing there, stuck in the visual of Scott using his claws to cut through the corset in a desperate attempt to get to his skin. He can feel his face heat up as his cock twitches a little.

Scott makes a little sound, like he knows and his eyes flash gold very briefly.

And Stiles—

Stiles seriously contemplates buying the corset and dragging Scott off to the nearest bed.

Someone clears their throat and the moment is gone.

Stiles and Scott glances over to see the agitated sales manager glaring at them.

"Boys. Please don't play with the merchandise," she says sweetly, eyes sharp with disapproval and too much teeth in her smile. She holds out her hand and Stiles hands over the corset. "Thank you," and she spins on her heel and away, probably to chastise another customer.

Stiles glances at Scott who looks back and they both laugh.

"Come on," Stiles snickers and laces their fingers together, pulling over to the register that Lydia and Allison are standing at. Five minutes later, they're out the store and back in the great halls.

Allison groups up with Matt again, who's taking random pictures with his camera. He mostly focuses on Allison, who takes it all in stride and poses with a few wide smiles.

Lydia guides them all to some kind of party store. Or at least that's what Stiles assumes it is since there are nothing but black and silver glittery tube tops and flashy heels. He figures it's the kind of store a girl goes to when she's planning for a weekend trip to Las Vegas or a night of clubbing.

Allison, being the ultimate shoe girl she already is, makes an immediate beeline for the shoe section. Matt follows, hovering over her with his camera and taking different snaps of her trying on different pairs of heels.

Lydia tucks herself between the racks of dresses and grabs a few armfuls to try on.

Stiles drags Scott over to the accessories section and playfully plops different pairs of hats on Scott's head. They jokingly decide the bright green sunhat looks the best on him.

"Aw, look at this!" Stiles exclaims, grabbing the wolf head hat and plopping it on his own head. He tucks his hands in the wolf paw pockets attached to the hat and starts dancing when Maroon 5's ' _McJagger_ ' song comes on.

Scott leans against a rack of miniskirts and starts chuckling, watching him with blatant amusement.

"I'm buying this hat," Stiles declares, never ceasing his dancing. "It's fluffy, and gray and soft and looks like you. I'm buying it."

"Buy it," Scott agrees with a fond smile. "It looks good on you."

Stiles nods and dances his way over to the register. The sales lady standing behind it laughs a little at him. Stiles flashes her a smile and fishes his wallet from out his back pocket to pay for it. When he's done, he puts it right back on his head. Scott drapes an arm over his shoulder and presses his lips to the side of his head. Stiles picks up the paws and pretends to make them battle each other, adding some obnoxious commentary along with it.

"Judging time," Lydia chirps, appearing out of thin air. She shoves a pile of dresses in Stiles's arms. "I'm going to borrow him," she says to Scott as she shoves Stiles in the direction of the dressing rooms. She flips her hair over her shoulder as she signals one of the sales ladies to come open a room for them.

Stiles sort of just waddles into the room the sales lady opens and sits down on the small bench against the wall between the two walls of mirrors.

Lydia drops her designer bag to the floor and shrugs out of her white green pea coat. She slides out of her jeans and pulls her blue crochet top off.

Stiles bounces his leg as his eyes trace over her skin. He pauses as he notices the long stripes of scars slashed along the side of her stomach in the shape of claw marks.

Lydia notices the look and she sighs, "You're allowed to ask."

"How did—I mean, what…happened?" Stiles asks as he lifts his eyes to meet hers.

"I'm sure you heard about the murder at the video store last week," Lydia says as she lifts her hands to twist her hair up into a bun, tying it off with the holder on her wrist. "Well, that was the night that Danny and I went to go rent The Notebook." She reaches out and snags the dress at the top of pile on Stiles's lap. "Jackson broke up with me and I was—understandably upset. So I asked Danny to keep me company." She steps in the dress and pulls it up. "Can you zip the back for me."

"Uh, yeah. Sure," Stiles says, sliding from under the pile of dresses and taking his place behind her.

"So anyway, I picked Danny up from his house and we went to the video store. We got out the car and then went inside. It was totally empty by the way, and Danny went to go find an employee to help us," Lydia continues. "Thanks," she says as she angles her body and eyes her reflection. "This is a no. Unzip me. Hand me another."

Stiles unzips her and grabs another dress for her.

"I walked over to register, since that's where they keep all the candy. I wouldn't usually buy any, but I was in a bad place that night," Lydia says as she slips the dress on. "I remember picking up a box of raisinets and looking over to left," she says, lifting a hand and looking off to the side as if she could still picture it. "Then there were these red eyes…" she whispers as she stares at the back of her hand.

Stiles watches her and waits for her to continue, but it's like she's in some kind of trance. "Lydia?"

Lydia blinks and drops her hand, throwing back her shoulders in a confident façade. "And that's all remember. The next thing I know is that I wake up next to the store clerk, who's dead, and I have blood all over me, my side hurts and Scott's mom is pulling me from under a collapsed movie shelf. Danny's nowhere in sight," she says. "And I'm so freaked out that when Sheriff McCall asks me if I was by myself, I say yes."

"You haven't said anything about Danny?" Stiles asks with a frown.

Lydia sniffs and runs her hands down along her sides. "I don't actually believe I have anything credible  _to_ say with how that night went. I checked my phone but I didn't have any texts or calls from Danny that night and I asked his parents and they say he went on some retreat with Jackson. My therapist thinks that the combined trauma of my heartbreak and the shock of waking up beside some dead guy has elevated my anxiety to the point of delusions. So maybe I never really picked up Danny, maybe I thought I did. Maybe…I don't know," she says, fidgeting. "I don't really want to talk about this. I'm sure Danny's fine wherever he is and if I don't see him at school on Monday I'll go to the police."

Stiles has an uneasy feeling. "So those claw marks healed pretty fast," he points out carefully.

"Sure, I guess," Lydia replies offhandedly. "I think I need this one in a bigger size," she says as she cocks her head and eyes her reflection.

"You feel any…different lately?" Stiles asks as he hands her another dress.

Lydia frowns at him through the mirror as she slips out of her dress and accepts the next one. "Different like how, Stiles?" she questions.

"I don't know—just, different. Maybe something about yourself that seems, enhanced? Or—off?" Stiles asks and watches as she slips on the next dress.

"These are very weird questions, but no. No more than usual," Lydia replies and twists her body. "Oh this is definitely a yes."

Ten more dresses, tops, skirts and jeans later, has Stiles thanking the heavens that Lydia was satisfied in her choices as they emerged from the dressing room. Though, Stiles still grumbles as he helps her carry it all over to the register.

Allison materializes out of nowhere with a handful of bright colored nail polish bottles. "It's about time—I thought you guys were never going to come out," she says as she pays for her things at the adjacent register. She glances up and grins. "Cute hat."

"Thanks," he says offhandedly. "And believe me, I thought I was going to be stuck in there forever too," he admits, throwing a look at the back of Lydia's head.

Lydia is unaware, too busy cocking her head and twirling a lock between her fingers carelessly while the sales lady rings her up towards the hundreds.

Stiles twists around and glances from corner to corner. He frowns and asks, "Where's Scott?"

"With Matt," Allison answers simply, tucking her wallet away in her purse. "They got bored and decided to shuffle down to the arcade."

"The arcade?" Stiles says a little dreamily.

Allison snickers at him.

" _Don't_ even think about it," Lydia says, shoving her shopping bags at his chest. "You are not leaving me to go pound on some pinball machine. Carry these."

Stiles purses his lips and takes the bag, shaking them in frustration. "Yeah, trust me. I could want nothing more than to be your personal pack mule. The last thing on my mind is giving you the slip," he mutters.

Lydia lifts one shoulder and flashes him a cutting smile before gliding confidently towards the exit.

Stiles bites his bottom lip and shakes the bags at her back in frustration again.

"Come on, Pack Mule," Allison snickers, looping an arm with hers and dragging him off.

The three of them take the escalator up to the second floor and strides toward the department store at the other end of the mall.

Allison and Lydia flounce over to the makeup section, leaving Stiles to lean against a jewelry display case adjacent to them and die a little inside as all the sales reps flock to him with samples of cologne. It takes at least a thousand reassurances that he is  _not_ interested in smelling like anything before they all fan out and swarm some other unsuspecting customer.

Stiles sighs and drops the shopping bags to his feet before leaning backwards on his elbows against the surface of the glass display case behind him. He flicks his eyes over to Lydia and Allison who are laughing and smiling as they apply samples of lipstick and blush on each other. That makes him smile a little bit fondly in return. Nothing made him happier than seeing his big sister happy and worry-free.

Maybe it's better that she doesn't know about their family or the whole business with werewolves. Stiles wouldn't give her any burden she didn't need to bare. He could always tell her later—like much later. Maybe like before they went their separate ways after graduation. Yeah, that seems like a reasonable time.

"Well you're a little young to be looking so serious," a voice says from behind.

Stiles frowns and twists around to see an older guy with dark hair that's combed back and slightly curled at the ends. His lips are quirked at the corners and his blue eyes are sharp with intense scrutiny. Stiles wonders if this guy is just another sales rep, but he finds it kind of odd that a sales rep would but outfitted in a leather jacket, a dark green button down shirt and some black slacks. But the guy is standing on the other side of the display case like he's getting ready to sell Stiles something.

"Not to be rude or anything, but how exactly would you know what my face looks like if you've been standing behind me—which also poses some other uncomfortable questions," Stiles says, lacing his hands together and leaning his hip against the edge of the glass.

Leather Sales Rep just shrugs his mouth as says, "Mirrors." He flicks his fingers against the top of the one to the left of them and causes it to spin four times. "They extend my vision. Makes it easier to spy," he says in a conspiratorial tone.

"Spy? Dude I don't think that's something your supposed to admit out loud," Stiles replies with a quirked eyebrow.

"Well how else am I supposed to spot a sure thing?" Leather Sales Rep counters with an amused smirk. He leans forward on his elbows as his blue eyes trace the ears of Stiles's wolf hat.

Stiles fidgets and straightens, feeling uncomfortable about being on the end of the guy's inspection. "Unfortunately, I'm not a sure thing. Not interested in buying any of your jewelry, sorry to say," he mutters.

"Hm, that's fine," Leather Sales Rep says offhandedly as he straightens as well. He sets his broad shoulders in a firm line. "What's your name?"

"Albert Hitchcock. What's yours?" Stiles retorts sarcastically. He glances over at Allison and Lydia.

"You can call me Peter," he says graciously, flicking his eyes over as well. "Are those your sisters? Very pretty. You all seem to share very good genes," he drawls, deliberately tracing his eyes over Stiles.

Stiles knows that look. He knows it like the back of his hand. Red flags begin to swarm his thoughts. "Okay…" he mutters.

Peter grins darkly.

"Yeah, uh—do you know what scabies and gonorrhea is? Cause I have a lot of that, like massively and while you don't seem the type to care much for felonies, I can safely warn you that I am indeed jailbait and in no way am I interested in committing any statutory situations with you. I also have a boyfriend who doesn't exactly frown on the act of murder, especially when he feels I'm cuckolding him and wow, I really just had to use that archaic reference just now—yeah." Stiles pauses and blinks for a moment. "Yeah, so—you know. No. To everything about you. Bye." He picks up Lydia's bags and quickly scuttles away.

Even when he crowds Allison and Lydia out and as far away from the department store as he can get, he stills feels Peter's burning gaze on him. A gaze that Stiles is pretty sure he's seen champion chess players sport when they're faced with a slightly amusing challenge.

That bothers him all the more.

Lydia takes the reigns once more and leads them to what she deems is her favorite shoe store. Allison just gives Lydia this look that kind of says that Lydia has just cemented the respect that Allison has developed for her. They share deep meaningful stares as they cram their fat toes in spikey skyscraper heels and Stiles just wants to run his head through the wall.

A mousy blonde with small hands tries to chat him up with fluttering eyelashes and empty flattery but Stiles just blinks at her like he's brain dead. He feels brain dead. Too much female everything. Seriously, he can taste the estrogen Lydia and Allison are trying to drown him in by making him hold their bags and giving his opinion on things he just does not give a flying fuck about.

And seriously, fuck Scott and Matt for abandoning ship without giving him a chance.

Fuck his life and his inability to say no. He should have said  _no._ He should have never answered Lydia's text. He should've just stayed home, locked his bedroom door and eat milkyway bites off of Scott's stomach.

And furthermore, he's hungry.

"I'm hungry," Stiles whines, poking at Allison's cheek as she tries on yet  _another_ pair of neon colored pumps.

Allison bats his hand away and rolls her eyes.

"How can you be hungry, you ate like four hours ago," Lydia huffs as she stands and sashays to a display mirror, turning to and fro to look at her feet.

"Yeah. That's the funny thing about the digestive system—it digests," Stiles retorts sarcastically. "I'm a growing boy, I need food. Not this," he says, throwing his hands about in an animated way.

"I'm getting kind of hungry too," Allison offers as she glances over to Lydia.

Lydia turns back to them and crosses her arms.

"Please," Stile begs, cupping his hands together like a prayer.

"Fine. But you have to let me dress you. I mean it, Stiles. You put on whatever I want and you buy whatever I say," Lydia bargains.

Stiles makes a face but he nods. He just really wants a hotdog.

"Great. One of you text Matt and Scott and tell them to meet us at the food court. I'm going to go pay for these. Don't forget to grab my bags," Lydia chirps with a little bounce in her step as she approaches the register.

Ten minutes later finds the three of them at the food court. Allison goes to get some Chinese food. Lydia just sticks with Stiles as he stands in line to get some hotdogs. She texts on her phone, saying she doesn't plan on eating anything. Stiles is going to have to find a way to fix that quirk of hers.

No one can never not eat. It's unnatural.

Scott finds them when Stiles is third in line. He looks a little frazzled and on edge.

"Hey. You alright?" Stiles asks after Scott kisses him chastely.

"What? Yeah. Fine," Scott says as fidgets and glances around.

Stiles frowns, completely unconvinced.

Scott notices and offers a small smile. "It's nothing. Just had a bad run in with De—no one. It's nothing," he says simply.

Stiles nods and leaves it alone, even though he really would prefer not to.

He's next in line, and for the few moments that he and Scott order some food, it doesn't matter anymore.

Except that it does.

Stiles tries not to be concerned, but the whole time after they have conjoined their tables in the food court and sit down to eat, he can't help but to notice how distracted Scott seems. He keeps bouncing his right leg, flicking his eyes around every area of the food court and checking his phone anxiously. And every time Stiles open his mouth to ask him about it, Scott quickly shakes his head before Stiles can even get the words out, as though he knows what Stiles will ask. He gives this reassuring smile that's not reassuring at all and goes back to his nervous fidgeting. He doesn't even touch his food, he just offers it over to Matt, who hadn't gotten any food for himself.

Sometime after Stiles polishes off his third hotdog, Scott stands and drags Lydia over to the water fountain. Stiles tries to be covert in his watching but well, he couldn't be more obvious even if he were trying to be. He can't hear what they're saying to each other, and the only person facing his direction is Lydia. Scott has his back to him and so Stiles can't see what kind of expression he's making.

Lydia, however, enlightens him to half the conversation, because whatever Scott is saying to her makes her frown. Twice. And then when he's done saying whatever it is he must have said, Lydia flicks her gaze over to Stiles briefly before turning back to respond in some clipped way of hers and adds a graceful shrug to the mix.

Scott must be happy with her answer because he actually reaches out and hugs her, startling Lydia and forcing her to awkwardly pat him on the side of his arm. He pulls back and seems to apologize. Lydia points her finger at him and says something that makes Scott nod fervently. Lydia looks satisfied with this response.

They return to the table sometime after that and Scott looks a little happier than he was before. This makes Stiles very curious.

Lydia fakes a yawn and says, "Oh, well—I'm tired. This has been a very fruitful outing. I think its time we wind it in and go our separate ways."

"I thought you were going to dress Stiles," Allison says with a confused frown.

"Allison—no, no. Let's not remind people of things," Stiles says, sending his sister a look.

Allison sticks her tongue out at him.

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that. We've plenty of time to do that later. Right, Scott?" Lydia says and casts a meaningful look at him.

Scott nods vigorously.

Stiles cups Scott's chin and stills him, a little worried his head might roll off if he keeps it up.

Scott glances at him with a grin and this time it's genuine.

"Wanna stay and see a movie?" Matt asks, looking at Allison.

Allison smiles, grabbing his arm and draping it over her shoulders as she nods.

"Wait, I want to see a movie," Stiles says, dropping his hand to his lap. "What movie are you guys going to see because personally I found the one about the swamp people very appealing. Kind of a post-modern interpretation of society's mistreatment of—"

"No, Stiles," Lydia interjects. "We're leaving now. So grab my bags, and let's go."

Stiles frowns. "No fair," he mutters.

Scott just rubs his back before standing and grabbing a few shopping bags to lighten his load.

Stiles is kind of, sort of, maybe a little grateful for that.

They drop Lydia's bags in her trunk and huddle in the back seat of her car, fingers intertwined, thighs pressed together and shoulders touching.

Lydia takes her time starting the car, and even when she does, she spends the next few minutes applying more lip-gloss. Then more mascara. Then more blush. And apparently she needs to primp her hair too as she pushes next, next, next on her iPod shuffle.

Stiles sighs loudly and Lydia meets his eyes through her rear view mirror as she slowly turns up the volume to a Demi Lovato song, almost daring him to say something. He wisely does not, even though he wants to brain himself with his own sneaker.

Scott shifts down and lays his head on Stiles's shoulder, and like a habit, Stiles ends up winding his fingers in Scott's hair. This chases away his agitation and lightens his mood. Scott presses a smiling kiss into the side of his neck, which confirms that this was a well thought out and successful tactic.

Stiles is only completely impressed.

The drive is silent, save for Lydia's horrid taste in music, and for some reason, she pulls up to Scott's house.

Stiles doesn't know whether to question why she has or how she even knows where he lives.

"There. Home sweet home. Now, get out," Lydia says as she changes the song. She turns and looks at them as they begin to shuffle out the car. "Stiles, I expect frequent texts from you. Tuesday night, my house. Movies, homework, whatever. Bring a change of clothes because you're spending the night. Mark it down so you don't forget," she says as she puts on a pair of bright red shades. "Not that I'd let you anyway."

Stiles, feeling a little cowed, nods and waves. He steps onto the curb as Scott slams the door close and joins him and they both watch as she drives away.

"So, hey—does Lydia smell any different to you?"

"Different like how?" Scott asks, glancing up and tracing his eyes over Stiles's wolf hat.

"More—wolfy," Stiles clarifies.

Scott's eyebrows furrow as his eyes dart down to his.

"She had claw marks—on her stomach. I saw them and, they looked like fading scars. Pretty unique seeing as how she got them a week ago," Stiles points out. "I would've told you this sooner but you ran off and left me behind—not cool by the way," he complains, thumping the back of his hand to Scott's chest.

"Sorry," Scott says, reaching up and grabbing the hand, holding it to his beating heart. "Arcades," he offers as an explanation.

"Yeah, I know," Stiles mutters, hating that he understands but honestly, arcades. They win every time so he can't really blame Scott. Doesn't make him less agitated though. "I think, well, I'm not sure—but we might be dealing with a potential werewolf in the making. And Lydia thinks she was traumatized before—you know what, she said something about red eyes. That's a trait of Alphas. I read that. She's actually seen him, but for whatever psychological reason, she's blocking the whole event from her mind and—why are you looking at me like that?"

"Who did you talk to?" Scott asks instead.

"What?"

"You smell like—just, did you talk to anyone other than Lydia and Allison?" Scott clarifies.

Stiles frowns as he tries to think. "No—well, I mean there was this one girl, a few od them actually and this guy. Peter. But—I don't know. Why?"

"You smell familiar—I can't, explain," Scott says, furrowing his eyebrows together again. "Like I know you, but its not you, it's someone else—something else."

"It's probably Lydia. Your wolf is recognizing her impending wolf," Stiles offers.

Scott shakes his head. "No, that's not it. This—this is something else," he mutters.

"Well fine, but the main thing here is that we'll have to keep tabs on Lydia—and why are we at your house again?" Stiles questions with a frown.

Scott perks up like he's just remembering and laces their fingers together as he pulls Stiles along to the front door. Then fishes for his keys in his pockets and unlocks the door when he finds it. He grabs Stiles's hand again and pulls him inside, closing and locking the door behind them.

It's eerily quiet.

"Your house smells like cinnamon," Stiles notes as he looks around and eyes all the picture frames carefully placed on top of furniture and against the walls.

"Yeah. It's my mom's favorite. I used to be used to it, but now—it's a little harder to ignore," Scott confesses.

Stiles makes a brief sound at that and eyes a picture on the wall. "Isaac—is he…what is he?" he asks curiously.

"He's likes my brother I guess you could say. My mom and dad adopted him when he was three. Back when my mom was still a nurse and Isaac used to be a frequent visitor of the E.R. Finally, one day my mom got tired of it and called child protective services. She got Isaac hauled out from his home and fought to get custody rights." Scott smiles fondly. "My mom can be overwhelming when she's determined. I think that's part of the reason she won. Isaac didn't have to live with his dad anymore, and I gained a new best friend."

"His dad was—abusive?" Stiles asks.

Scott nods.

"Heavy," he murmurs sympathetically. "Your mom must be a super awesome person. Isaac lucked up."

Scott smiles his sunshiny smile and nods in agreement. He ducks his head and grabs Stiles's hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the inside of his palm. His smiles goes a little soft as he meets Stiles's eyes and he says, "I, uh—I asked Isaac to hang with Erica for a while. And, um, my mom—she wont be home until later. I told her I'd bring you by so you can meet her. I think she plans to interrogate you over a platter of her famous enchiladas, but—until then we have the house to ourselves," he admits carefully.

"Okay," Stiles says simply. Then he pauses to really think about what Scott said and notices the meaningful look cast his way. " _Oh_! Okay. Yeah, no, yeah. Let's do that," he says enthusiastically.

Scott laughs and pulls him to the stairs. "Don't ever change Stiles," he chuckles.

Stiles grins a little self-deprecatingly as they march side by side up the steps and to Scott's room. He sort of makes a sweeping gesture when he opens his door and Stiles glances around. Stiles takes everything in, noting that his bed is pushed towards the left wall, right under the window. He's got his work desk on the other side, right where his bathroom door is. All other space is filled up with dressers, lacrosse gear and miscellaneous sports gear and game systems. His got a TV pushed to one corner, adjacent to his work desk, and there is clutter everywhere, not on the floor or his bed surprisingly enough, but on top of his dressers and desk, in his chair and on his nightstand.

"Well, it's safe to say that your as messy as me," Stiles says as he walks over to Scott's bed and plops down, bouncing a little.

"Yeah," Scott chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck. "Drives my mom crazy. She's always muttering at me in Spanish and wondering why I can't be more organized like Isaac. I tell her its because I'm normal and Isaac always tries to throw one of his books at my face." He steps into the room and closes his door behind him, careful to lock it. He fidgets a little nervously.

Stiles grins, leans back on his elbows and waits expectantly.

Scott leans back against his door and meet his stare, raising his eyebrows.

Stiles rolls his eyes as he sits up, takes off his wolf hat and pulls his shirt over his head, throwing it at Scott. It lands right on his head and Stiles snorts as he kicks off his shoes and yanks off his socks.

Scott pulls the shirt off and brings it up to his nose before tossing it to the side. He edges closer to the bed as his eyes flash gold and stalks a little predatorily to the bed as Stiles slides backwards. When he feels his back touch Scott's pillows, he stays still, never breaking eye contact as Scott crawls onto the bed and over him. He pushes forward and captures Scott's lips, humming contently when Scott cups one hand on his waist and uses the other to palm the space between his shoulder blades.

Scott licks his way inside of Stiles's mouth and rumbles when Stiles sucks gently on his tongue. Stiles grins against his lips as worries Scott's lower lip between his teeth and kisses a trail down to his collarbone. He sucks a mark into the base of Scott's neck and lowers himself fully onto the bed so he can trail his fingers beneath the hem of Scott's shirt in search for unusually heated skin.

This, this right here—this Stiles can do. He's never met anyone as confident in the bedroom as he is. While he may be awkward in other things, he's more at ease when it comes to the more physical interactions. He likes sex and he's neither ashamed nor unwilling to try just about anything. He has his limits of course, but he's not entirely vanilla.

He soothes his tongue over the mark he's placed on Scott's neck and carefully brings his hands around to the front of Scott's pants as he leans up to kiss him again.

Scott makes a small sound as he quickly captures Stiles's hands and stops him.

Stiles frowns and pulls back. "What's wrong?"

Scott shakes his head as his eyes flash gold again. He drops his gaze and seems to think carefully about his next words. "Could I just—I mean would it be okay if I—um," he stammers flicking his gaze up before he boldly cups a hand over Stiles's cock through his jeans.

Stiles bites his bottom lip as his hips jump.

"I just want to—you know?" Scott says, watching Stiles for a reaction.

Stiles has to think through the gathering haze of arousal to work out Scott's muddled words. When he does he looks up and says, "Scott—are you trying to say you want to give me a blowjob?"

"Um," Scott flushes, but that's enough of a confirmation.

"Because you don't ever have to ask," Stiles reassures as he thrusts up a little into Scott's heated palm. "Like  _ever_. Blowjobs, handjobs and any kind of sexual jobs are very, _very_ welcomed and well-received as much as they are given."

Scott ducks down and kisses him quiet, kisses him stupid, enthusiastically sliding his tongue in as he works the button of Stiles's jeans.

Stiles lifts his hips to make it easier for him when Scott pulls down his jeans and his boxers, blunt fingernails scraping softly against his hipbones and Stiles shudders. Scott tosses his clothes haphazardly and bends forward to deliver a biting kiss to Stiles's already flushed mouth.

Scott dips his tongue in when Stiles opens up and their tongues tangle in a sensual dance that makes Stiles's cock jump and Scott's nostrils flare. Scott licks his way out of Stiles's mouth, catching one corner and continuing down his jawline to the bottom of his ear. Stiles twists his head, shuddering when Scott tongues the outer edge of his ear. His fingers arch into Scott's back, and if Scott hadn't still had his shirt on, he knows he would have made crescent indents in Scott's skin.

Just when Stiles slides his fingers down to catch the hem of Scott's shirt, Scott pulls out of reach, trailing biting kisses down his chest and his thoughts go kind of wonky when Scott seals his mouth over the peak of his nipple. Stiles makes a small sound as he threads his fingers through Scott's hair, clinging to the roots when Scott wiggles his tongue lower.

Stiles is already just about saluting the ceiling by the time Scott skims his mouth over the head of his cock. " _Scott_ …" he moans and it morphs into a startled groan when Scott opens his mouth and eases down his cock like he's got all the time in the world to turn Stiles into a puddle of goo.

Scott suckles gently, taking his time as he tightens his lips and flattens his tongue along the underside and Stiles whimpers because he never realized how wide Scott's tongue is. It feels like it could coil right around him. And when Scott bottoms out his mouth, he sucks and sucks, Stiles gives a strangled cry as his toes curls and the grip in Scott's hair tightens. Scott curls his tongue in ways Stiles didn't even know was possible, making him moan shamelessly and bite down on his bottom lip, because  _God_  it felt  _way_ too good to even describe.

Scott rumbles and the vibration of it sends sparks of pleasure right down his cock, fanning out and causes his whole body to flush. Stiles gasps and moans, thrusting his hips up and trying to remember how to breathe when Scott keeps them pinned down. His eyelids flutter as he loses himself in the sensation, and while it's a little obvious that Scott might have done this before, he's too busy panting and tightening his grip in Scott's hair to the point of pain to be jealous or questioning.

Stiles feels his cock twitch and he moans again when Scott bobs his head up and down, up and down, up and down, pausing in between to suck and hum and drive Stiles out of his mind. His body tightens, ready to dive into the throes of an orgasm he admittedly hasn't been privy to in a while. Scott's eyes flick up to meet his as he slowly lowers his mouth down again, pupils wide and gleaming sharp gold. Stiles feels a rising wail trying to break loose from his chest as Scott's mouth sinks down and down and down until he feels his cock hit the back of Scott throats. Stiles cries out as Scott swallows again, and again, and again and Stiles really has no choice but to come, and he does, gloriously. He stops breathing as his body shudders and twitches and his cock convulses while his heart thuds painfully against his ribcage.

Scott growls through his swallowing and eases off, licking gently at the head and making Stiles cringe and close his legs because he was getting sensitive. Scott lets him be, climbing to his knees and practically ripping his jeans open as he shoves his hand inside and jerks himself off and comes all over Stiles's stomach and chest, marking him up as his gold eyes flicker, teetering back and forth from being in control to wildly out of control.

"Ugh—Scott. Seriously?" Stiles complains as he pants, still feeling weightless and strung.

Scott mutters something as he exhales and dips forward to clean his come with his tongue. Stiles makes a small sound and lets him, feeling tired and satiated.

"This isn't a sufficient bath you know," Stiles grumbles, stroking his fingers through Scott's hair as his tongue dips along the grooves of his skin. "We're not making a habit of this."

Scott just makes a noncommittal sound and continues to suck at Stiles's skin. When he's satisfied he's cleaned Stiles, he slides his body and curls himself around him.

Stiles lifts his hands and playfully grabs at Scott's nose as Scott cocks his head and kisses him. He licks his way into Stiles mouth and Stiles cringes a bit, not too keen on tasting himself but when he tries to move back, Scott growls softly and holds him there.

"Is this like another wolf thing?" he murmurs when Scott finally lets him go. His eyelids dip as he watches Scott sniff at his shoulder and rumble in satisfaction.

Scott glances up as he smiles a little amusedly, a little sad, and says, "Sure."

Stiles would pester him for answers but he's too busy falling asleep.

" _I'm sorry…_ "

888

Stiles wakes to the sound of thunder, and rain hitting the window pane. He wakes to the smell of meat and cheese and the sound of a Rolling Stones song he vaguely recognizes. He wakes to a dark room feeling sticky and cold and alone. He blinks and sits up, rubbing at his mouth as he looks around. He gets up and grabs his clothes, tossing them on the bed before he tucks away in Scott's bathroom and makes full use of his shower. He climbs into his clothes and his shoes when he's done and gropes at himself for his phone. He has thirteen missed calls from his mom, a few texts from Lydia and Allison and one missed call from his dad. They probably were just wondering where he was.

He calls his mom.

"I'm having dinner at Scott's," he says as soon as she picks up.

"Well I wish you would call and tell me these things so I don't have to worry," Victoria replies. "I don't like to worry and you know better."

"Sorry," Stiles sighs.

"Be home before eleven," and she hangs up.

Stiles rolls his eyes and puts his phone in his back pocket before he ventures out into the hall and down the steps. He turns the corner and ventures into the kitchen where Mrs. McCall is swinging her hips back and forth to another Rolling Stones song as she stirs a big black spoon in a silver pot. It makes Stiles smile a little and he clears his throat.

Mrs. McCall jumps and presses a hand to her chest. " _Dios mío y la Madre María!_ You just about gave me a heart attack," she says as she sighs.

"Sorry," Stiles says and rubs a hand down the top of his head. "Rolling Stones fan?"

Mrs. McCall smiles a little sheepishly and Stiles can see vague echoes of Scott in it. "Just a little guilty pleasure of mine," she admits.

"That's cool. I'm Stiles by the way," Stiles says as he offers a hand.

"Yes, the infamous Stiles. Its nice to finally meet the young man that's got my son so enthralled," Mrs. McCall replies, accepting the hand and giving a firm shake. "I have to admit, I can see why. You are just so handsome."

Stiles smiles self-consciously and tucks his hands in his pockets. "Thank you. And I have to say I see where Scott gets his good genes," he quips.

Mrs. McCall bats a hand at him but by her grin, he can tell she's flattered.

"So, Scott mentioned you were cooking dinner," Stiles says as he sits down at the kitchen table.

"That's right. Being Sheriff doesn't usually allow me to cook a lot of dishes like I'd like to but I try and make an effort once in a while when I can," she confess as she turns off the burner and the oven.

"Do you know where Scott is?" Stiles asks.

"Not sure. He left the minute I got home about two hours ago and said he was running out to get something. I'm sure he'll be back any minute now," she says as she slips on a pair of oven mitts and opens the oven door to pull out a long glass dish.

By the smell of it, he can tell it's the enchiladas that Scott mentioned before. Mrs. McCall sets the table, leaving an extra plate for Scott and serves the both of them for the moment. She introduces Stiles to a unique soup. She says it's her abuelita's famous lime soup and expressed a fondness for it, which she's carried ever since she was old enough to eat it. It was her abuelita's specialty, and she never let anyone learn her recipe. She jokingly explains that the only reason she was able to get it is because she begged and harassed her abuelita to death until she eventually gave in, making her promise not to share it with anyone else.

Stiles has to admit that it tastes unlike any soup he's ever had before. He recognizes a few ingredients in it, the lime, bits of chicken, black beans, and corn with floating bits of cilantro. He knows that if he asks she probably wouldn't confirm it, and that's fine with Stiles because he's too busy emptying his bowl.

By the time Mrs. McCall begins to dish out helpings of her enchiladas, Stiles comes to the conclusion that all other Mexican dishes he's ever eaten have just been garbage in comparison. He tells Mrs. McCall as much and she responds with a flattered laugh and a fond headshake. It does enough to get her to allow him the privilege of using her first name. They flow into easy topics of different conversations, getting to know each other a little better. Stiles thinks she's a really great person.

Even though dinner with Scott's mom goes really well, it agitates him that Scott hadn't shown up at all during. And it became even more obvious that he wasn't going to either by the end of it all. Mrs. McCall ends up having to drop him off at his house with an apology about her son's random behavior. She sends him off with a brief hug and a promise to sit down for dinner anytime in the near future, which kind of says without saying that she approves of him.

Stiles walks up his drive and enters his house, glancing around to see if maybe Scott had doubled back here. As he goes up the stairs, he sees his mom and his Aunt Kate chatting together over a glass of white wine in the front room. They briefly greet him before going back to whatever it is they were talking about.

Stiles frowns when he reaches his room and sees none of Scott's things. That only adds to his agitation and confusion. He marches down the steps and into the living room.

"Did Scott come back here?" Stiles asks as both his mother and his Aunt Kate turn to look at him. "His stuff's gone."

"Now that you mention it, he did come by a few hours ago and then he was gone," Kate says and takes another graceful sip.

"Genim, honey, I don't understand. Were you not at his house having dinner?" Victoria asks with a suspicious frown.

"I  _was_  and I  _did_. But Scott, he—wasn't. Didn't," Stiles admits. "I thought maybe he was here but I can see he's not."

"You two not having a fight are you?" Kate asks, not even looking at him but tracing the rim of her glass instead.

Something about her question echoes all vibes of wrong across his mind and it worries him.

"Fight? You two having a lovers' spat?" Victoria asks with amusement as she leans forward against her crossed legs.

"Oh please Victoria, there's no love. They're sixteen—practically children," Kate mutters and takes another sip of her wine.

"It was just an expression," Victoria retorts.

"Expression or not," Kate replies with a shrug and she flicks her gaze over to Stiles with a small smirk. "Whatever is, I'm sure it'll work itself out."

"Yeah," Stiles simply says. "I'm going to bed," he mutters and spins on his heel, not even acknowledging their resounding replies. He tucks himself away in his room and closes his door, leaning back against it as his eyes jump from corner to corner.

Coming to a decision, Stiles marches over to his bathroom and fishes for his Adderall. He knocks back a couple and dips his mouth under his faucet to swallow it down. He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth as he cuts the sink off and makes his way over to his work desk. He boots up his laptop and turns on his TV, turning to the local news channel and putting it on mute. Or at least he would've if he hadn't noticed the field reporter standing outside of his high school beside a bus. He turns up the volume.

"… _where a local school bus driver was attacked. This would be the second animal attack Beacon Hills has experienced. And as you can see, it's getting a little out of hand and have forced authorities to issue a county wide curfew until they can get the attacks underway. Now we have no words as to the identity of the driver but what we do know is that he is in critical condition._ "

The camera pans away and shows different shots of the bus. The back door was torn off, the seats looked ripped up and there was blood smeared everywhere.

Stiles mutes the TV and blinks. The video store and now the bus driver. Something itched at his mind about it and he's unable to just write it off as a coincidence. He turns back to his laptop, opens up a search engine and cracks his knuckles.

He types in:  _Beacon Hills Animal Attacks_

He's half an hour into statistics and recent articles when his Adderall really kicks in, and he just stops when a thought occurs to him.

He opens up a new tab, circles back to the search engine and types:  _Derek Hale_

888

Monday comes sooner rather than later and Stiles has spent the better part of the weekend researching. In between that time, he calls and texts Scott, only to get no reply. He worries about it, of course he does, but he also has some things he really wants to tell Scott. And those things have to do with what he found in his research. So he does the only thing he can think of. He waits outside the front of the school. He sits on the steps and waits, even as the crowd of students grow and fan out on the school grounds.

Lydia eventually finds him and keeps him company, texting on her phone and fiddling with her hair. She knows what's going on with him and Scott. She had pestered it out of him when they talked over the phone yesterday afternoon. He figures she's there to offer silent support.

She's kind of not a bad friend, self-centered most of the time, but decent all the same.

Stiles quickly stands when he spies Scott walking with Isaac and Erica from the school's parking lot.

Isaac mutters something to Scott, which causes Erica to glance his way and shake her head as she brushes past him.

Scott stops a few feet away from him and tucks his hands in his pockets as he peers up at him through lowered lashes.

"I'll see inside," Isaac says, clapping Scott on the shoulder and tossing Stiles a sympathetic look before he disappears inside the school.

Lydia looms behind them on the steps and pretends to be more interested in the reflection she sees in her compact mirror.

"So?" Stiles starts. "Is everything okay?"

Scott nods silently glancing away.

"Not to sound like a total girl but, you haven't been returning any of my texts or calls," he points out. "And you just left my house without saying why. You left  _your_ house with me in it without saying why."

"I had some things to take care of," Scott says with a meager shrug.

"Some things to take care of," Stiles echoes hollowly. "Scott—what's going on with you? Cause I thought we were past all the vagueness, all the disappearing acts. I—" he pauses and glances around as he lowers his voice. "I don't know what to think. You have to tell me what's going on."

Scott looks at him and his eyes look a little dulled, too heavy with sadness and guilt and everything else he isn't saying. He shrugs again and shifts his gaze away as he says, "There's some things I've been wrong about. I mean I've been thinking and—I just don't really feel like this is working."

Stiles swallows as he licks at his bottom lip. He feels a little flushed with panic and hurt. There is no way that he could be—Stiles didn't want to believe—not Scott. He's come to expect this from everyone else, but not Scott. Scott's supposed to be different—he  _was_ different.

"What's not working exactly?" he whispers.

"This. Us," Scott clarifies, and he sounds a little agitated. "I don't think we should be together."

Stiles swallows again and nods once, looking up to the sky. "Well I think your keeping something from me. Because this a complete one-eighty from how you were the other day—how you've been."

"Stiles. Its not working," Scott snaps. "I'm sorry but—you're a liability. And I—just can't have that. I don't need that right now."

"You don't _need_ that right now?" Stiles repeats skeptically, anger coiling like a spring in his gut and in his voice. "Well tell me what you do need Scott because obviously something's getting lost in translation right now."

"I just need you to stay out of my way," Scott says simply, squaring his shoulders and look him right in the eyes. "I just need you to forget that we even—just…forget."

"Scott why are you being like this?" Stiles asks, hating that his eyes are starting to water and how Scott looks at him blankly like he doesn't even care. "Is this—did Derek say something to you?"

"He might have given me some perspective," Scott admits with a shrug and Stiles is just a second away from dislocating Scott's shoulders if he doesn't quit it with the fucking blasé attitude. "Doesn't matter because the decision's ultimately mine and I choose to—" he hesitates and his hand curls into a fist. "I choose—myself. And, I've realized that doing that means we can't be together."

"You choose yourself," Stiles repeats bitterly. "What happened to you staying with me no matter what? Regardless of my family or Derek. You remember that? Cause I do. And I know we haven't talked about it but I also remember you saying that you loved me."

Scott just stares at him and his jaw works slowly. He's fighting something, Stiles can see it in his eyes, and he's so fucking angry with how Scott's acting. Why was he letting Derek manipulate him? Why was he letting him drive them apart? Scott was acting weak and—and Stiles just—he can't even—

The first warning bell sounds off and everyone shuffles inside.

"It doesn't matter," Scott finally says, looking at him with decisive eyes. "None of that matters, Stiles. Just forget it and—if you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of my way." He brushes past Stiles and disappears inside.

Stiles just stands there and tries to swallow the painful lump that forms in his throat.

"Hey."

Stiles turns to see Lydia smiling sadly at him.

"Why don't we just—skip?" she suggests, lifting her hand and offering him some tissue. "One day of hooky couldn't hurt right?"

Stiles huffs a self-deprecating laugh and takes it, scrubbing his eyes dry. "Sure, I guess," he agrees mildly. Lydia offers an arm and he loops his with hers.

"I say, we go to the ice cream parlor and circle back to my house. I just ordered The Notebook from amazon—"

"Lydia I'm not watching The Notebook. I am not that fucking depressed."

" _Yet_. And of course you're watching it, you're my best friend and it comes with the territory."

"Lydia, how can I  _even_  be your best friend already? We've barely spent more than four hours together."

"You're my best friend because I said so and therefore your argument is invalid. We are watching The Notebook, gorging ourselves with ice cream and making a bonfire so that we can draw stick figures of our exes and then burn them. All a part of the healing process."

Stiles smiles a little and shakes his head when they reach her hybrid car.

As Lydia fishes for her keys, Stiles shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and fidgets while his eyes dart around the parking lot. His breath catches when he sees Derek standing near the trees, eyes focused on him with harsh scrutiny like he's waiting for something.

Stiles feels a sharp rush of anger bubble inside of him and before he can even think about it, he gives Derek two middle fingers and mouths ' _fuck you_ '.

Derek's lips just stretch out into a slow smirk as his eyes flash electric blue and he turns away, disappearing in the trees.

Stiles scowls and climbs in the car when Lydia manages to unlock the door. He suddenly has a desire to consume an entire bottle of vodka instead of a carton of ice cream.

He'd rather not feel or think right now.


	7. Chapter 7

_'I feel too much. That's what's going on.' 'Do you think one can feel too much? Or just feel in the wrong ways?' 'My insides don't match up with my outsides.' 'Do anyone's insides and outsides match up?' 'I don't know. I'm only me.' 'Maybe that's what a person's personality is: the difference between the inside and outside.' 'But it's worse for me.' 'I wonder if everyone thinks it's worse for him.' 'Probably. But it really is worse for me.'_

**―Jonathan Safran Foer**

888

**Part One**

_Two Weeks Later_

The next two weeks kind of past by in a haze. Stiles and Scott don't really see much of each other outside of school and lacrosse practice, which actually means they see a lot of each other, uncomfortably so. And even when they do, they go to great lengths to avoid each other, eye contact, verbal interactions and all. It's almost painfully obvious that they had a falling out by anyone who cares to notice, and apparently the students of Beacon Hills like to notice everything and gossip like noisy clucking chickens.

Stiles tries not to think about it, and he tries ignoring the 'I told you so' looks that Boyd cast his way. He ignores the looks people give him, both sympathetic (since he was the one to get dumped) and looks of interest, because being newly heartbroken and single apparently means he's open to all come-ons, flirtations and other annoying things he shoots right down. Because, just— _no_. And thankfully the bunch doesn't include Boyd, which makes him a little suspicious but grateful all the same.

He ignores the way he hasn't been able to sleep much. He ignores the way his heart aches whenever he thinks of Scott and how he can't deny that he misses the adorable idiot. He ignores the way he's jammed that damnable wolf hat under his bed so he doesn't have to look at it and think of a certain someone. He's ignored the fact that he's given up on researching anything concerning werewolves or anything to do with Derek Hale. He knows about the whole Hale fire incident (vaguely through articles and outsider reports), and he would have delved deeper in it if he hadn't been blown off by Scott the way he was. He really had just wanted to help, but it's become clear Scott doesn't want it.

Instead, Stiles spends his time focusing on school and being the best lacrosse captain he can, despite having his perplexing ex as a co-captain.

Details, details.

Regardless of that little fact, it proves fruitful because they've only lost one game, and even then that wasn't his fault. They were down by two major players: Jackson and Danny. Speaking of those two, they were still MIA, even with the month coming to a close.

It took some convincing but Stiles urged Lydia to go to the police about Danny, but that turned out to be futile. Lydia explained that Danny's parents were not concerned and how her statement wasn't credible enough without evidence and Lydia didn't exactly have any proof that they got together that night. She's got no texts and no calls from Danny, so her concerns had been deemed invalid. Thus they both decided to just leave it alone and hope for the best, because that's all they really could do. That's all  _Stiles_ could do, because he couldn't just blurt the whole business of werewolves and alphas and not look like a nut job. Plus that would put him in an uncomfortable position with his family and with Lydia.

But Lydia—Lydia is great. Stiles has come to know this very well over the past two weeks. She's quick-witted, super smart (though she tries to hide it by acting vain and dense) and she's always considerate about the people she cares for. Stiles has spent most of his time with her, partly because he wants to make sure she doesn't pull a Jekyll and Hyde— _werewolf style_ —and go on some kind of killing spree that would in turn get her killed. There's been nothing odd happening so Stiles has lowered his guard—just a bit.

But Lydia, otherwise, really is a joy to be around. She can be persistently strong-willed but with the best intentions. She comes from a strong Irish background and all of her family lives in Ireland, half in Limerick and the other half in Waterford. Her and her parents always spend their summers with them, traveling back and forth and generally being reminded that the Martin clan is a very large and vivacious one. Lydia has decided that Stiles will be joining them this summer so she can give him living proof that she has a shit ton of cousins. Stiles has been to Ireland already, even lived there for a period of three months, but that had been in Dublin, so he had shrugged and said sure. Spending his summer with Lydia and her boisterous family didn't sound like a bad idea.

Among the many things he has come to learn about Lydia, she's got an interesting history. It starts with an accidently discovered box of plaques and medals in the back of her inhumanely large walk-in closet. Lydia then decides to acknowledge that when she was younger she used to figure-skate both competitively and recreationally. She also used to compete with her six older cousins in Ceili dance competitions, and she even went out of her way to drag Stiles up to her attic and pull out her grass green dress and black leather dance shoes. When he questioned about how small they were, Lydia said it was because it was from when she was four. Stiles nagged and nagged her until she caved and showed him the pictures and the home-made videos. He gleefully watched a miniaturized Lydia, tightly wound red curls and all, dance around, while the current Lydia flushed in mortification and tried to suffocate herself with a couch pillow.

Best. Saturday. Night. Ever.

Stiles knows he's shared more things with her than he ever has with anyone and because of her, he's beginning to understand what having a best friend means. She's fiercely loyal, protective, always at his side, and they do practically everything together. They have breakfast every morning, always Lydia's choice, before they head out to school. They sit by each other in every class, which are all their classes because Stiles has come to learn they share the same schedule. She stays after school when he has practices and holds up handmade glitter-infested bedazzled signs with his name on them to cheer him on. They always spend the night over each other's house every Tuesday and Thursday, and spend the weekends together.

Three weeks ago, he would have laughed at the idea of acting like bosom buddies with Lydia, but now he can't imagine life without her. She's the best friend he's always been waiting for, and she's become a sort of surrogate sister to him. Which is perfect timing actually since his actual sister is busy spending all her time with her dreamy-perfect-photographer-acting extraordinaire-boyfriend Matt. The only thing though is that he wishes Lydia would stop trying to set him up with her friends. He loves Lydia, like  _really_ loves her (crazily enough), but there are some things that she does that can be a little much.

Like her undying love of The Notebook and how much they watched it, which is  _a lot_ because Stiles knows the fucking movie line for line now.

Yeah. Not something he ever wanted to know or can unlearn anytime soon.

But anyway, just when things were starting to settle down and feel normal (there hadn't been anymore news of animal attacks or murders) is the week when the shit hits the fan. First it starts with third and final week of the month. Actually it starts in the middle of the week, on Wednesday, three days before the full moon on Saturday.

Stiles and Lydia are sitting together at lunch, like always, when Boyd decides to plop down right beside him.

"Long time no see, Gem," Boyd says with a grin.

"We have every class together, we're on the same lacrosse team and you live right across from me—how exactly is this a _'long time no see'_  scenario?" Stiles says as he gives Boyd a ' _what the fuck do you want?_ ' look.

Boyd just smirks. "You know what your problem is?" he asks instead.

"That murder is illegal and socially reprehensible?" Stiles mutters as he twists the cap off his soda and gives Lydia a look. She returns it with a grin as her thumbs move over the screen of her phone.

"You're too uptight," Boyd continues, ignoring his comment. "And I think it would be good for you to hang out with me tonight."

"No," Stiles says, not even thinking about it.

"Look—I already talked it over with your dad. He suggested we go bowling. You still like bowling right?" Boyd asks with a smile.

"Boyd, no offense, but you're not exactly my favorite person nor have you been ever since we broke up," Stiles admits as he stuffs a handful of curly fries in his mouth. Boyd's smile goes a little sad, which completely throws Stiles off.

Boyd glances at Lydia before he turns back and says, "I'm not asking you on a date. I miss you, Stiles. We used to be friends before we dated—you remember that right? Because I do, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't want that again. I haven't made a lot of friends here, outside of our team, but—I'm asking that you at least consider hanging out with me some times. Platonically."

Stiles chews slowly and considers Boyd. He sees nothing in Boyd's eyes that says he isn't being genuine, but still. He knows Boyd's not above manipulation or deception.

"You know what, bowling sounds like a lot of fun," Lydia pipes up and meets Stiles's eyes when he looks her way. "In fact, since its platonic and everything, why don't I join you?"

"Sure. Three's a crowd," Boyd says with a grin and a wink.

"Let's make it four. I have a friend that likes to bowl too," Lydia says pleasantly before she goes back to texting.

"So I guess we're bowling," Stiles concludes in a neutral tone, taking small sips of his soda. He feels like he might regret this. It's a gut instinct but at least Lydia will be there, so that makes things somewhat better.

"Let's meet at six," Boyd says and waits until they both nod in agreement before he leaves.

"You know," Lydia says after a while. "He's not that bad looking."

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours—forever and always. I'm just saying, for your ex he's got a charm to him," she clarifies. "How was the sex?"

"Should I pretend I don't know what you mean?"

"Oh don't be that way—star system it."

"You want me to rate him like a movie?"

"Why not? I'd give Jackson a ten out of five. Don't tell him I said that."

Stiles makes a face. Not something he ever wanted to know.

"And this is where you tell me that Boyd is…" Lydia trails off and gives him a meaningful look.

"Four out of five," Stiles admits reluctantly.

"Oh that's tough," Lydia says before leaning forward. "Well, did he at least have a big—"

"Oh my  _God_ , Lydia! No. Absolutely not," Stiles hisses and glares at her.

Lydia holds up her hands to shows she's harmless. "Okay, okay. I'll save that for later then. You know Jackson—"

"God,  _no!_ "

"—is quite possibly the best I've ever had. And I've had  _a lot_. But he is possibly the highest contender in that area. I mean in every area," she continues, ignoring Stiles's exasperated flailing. "He was my everything," she says with a sad sigh.

"Don't get what you saw in him. That guy was a dickwad," Stiles mutters while he picks with his pizza.

"Well yeah but—Jackson is a closet sweetheart. There's a side of him that I saw that he doesn't show to everyone. You know, underneath that arrogance and incredibly good looks, he's just as vulnerable as the rest of us."

Stiles considers her words and the almost wistful expression that leaks through as she says it. And he knows that look for what it is.

"You loved him, huh?" Stiles says softly.

Lydia blinks and straightens her face as she clears her throat, purposefully fiddling with her phone and avoiding his eyes. "Yes, well, we all have that one," she says quietly.

"Could be for the best," Stiles offers. "He might've felt like the one but maybe the one is still out there."

"I like how you're giving me hypocritical advice when you and I know that you don't believe anything you're saying," Lydia points out knowingly.

Stiles smiles a little indulgently.

"Okay, so maybe Disney only prepared us to fight evil dragons and wicked witches but left out the ' _what if's'_  of the fairytale," she says rather candidly.

"Yeah, like what if the prince turns out to be a complete inconsiderate douchebag," Stiles mutters as he eats another fry.

"Yeah, true," Lydia relents. "You know I didn't always see myself with Jackson. But sometimes there's other things you wouldn't think would be a good combination, and that turn out to be a perfect combination. Like two people together, who nobody ever thought would be together, ever. I just—that's how it felt with him."

"I'll take your word for that, Lydia—but I could never  _ever_ imagine dating someone like,  _Jackson_ ," Stiles says and dramatically shudders for effect.

"Careful what you say, Stiles. You're just asking Fate to screw with you," Lydia says as she gently prods her fingers into her temple.

"What's wrong?" Stiles says as he watches her wince.

"It's nothing. I just woke up with this headache that won't leave me alone," Lydia explains before her phone buzzes, causing her to glance down and smile.

"What's the smile for?" Stiles asks as he munches on his slice of pizza.

"Oh nothing," she replies airily, flipping her red hair over her shoulder. "It's just that my mom says that your mom has excellent taste in jewelry."

Stiles pauses his chewing to blink. "Yeah, um, you're going to need to explain that one to me," he says, setting down his pizza.

"It's not a big deal. I casually set your parents and my parents on a lunch date for this afternoon and they all agreed and are, as we speak, getting to know one another," Lydia says with triumphant grin. "They're hitting it off, I can tell."

"Lydia—I'm making it a point not to be surprised by anything you do anymore," Stiles decides.

"I'm unpredictable," Lydia agrees and with a sly grin, adds, "Problem?"

"My main problem is that you don't eat enough," Stiles says with a snort as he stuffs some curly fries in his mouth.

"What are you even talking about? I've gained at least six pounds ever since we became best friends," Lydia argues, and to prove her point she steals some of his fries and eats them with more grace than he has never been able to manage. "Look at this. You've got me eating fries. And not to mention those stupid marshmallow pies. Marshmallow, Stiles,  _marshmallows_. I'm on the fast track to The Biggest Loser, I know it."

"Well—if I have to sit and suffer through The Notebook while my penis shrivels up inside of me, you've got to like food and gain some weight on my behalf," Stiles says with a grin. "I think it's a fair trade."

Lydia just rolls her eyes and steals more of his fries before the bell rings.

"Chemistry time," Stiles announces as they stand throw dump their trays. They choose a table in the middle of the room and wait for Mr. Harris to make a glorious appearance.

Lydia fidgets in her seat as she pulls out her compact mirror and primps herself as she mutters under her breath.

Stiles grins knowingly.

Lydia and Mr. Harris have a rivalry unmatched. Stiles thinks it's the most amusing thing in the world when they go head to head.

"He's just mad because he's so old and I'm so young, which means any come-on he'd even consider giving would be both inappropriate and illegal. Oh, and he's also jealous that I can out-teach him any day," Lydia explained a long time ago when Stiles was curious enough to ask.

Stiles had accepted the explanation but he knew there had to be something more to it than that.

"Alright, settle down," Mr. Harris drawls as he sweeps into the room like the perfect imitation of Snape in his younger days. "Let's try to make this class less painful than my last one shall we? Now. The element symbol for zinc is…" He peers around and smirks at all the eyes that avoid his. "Greenberg."

"Uh—yeah?"

"Element symbol. Zinc," Mr. Harris says with a patient drawl as he leans back against the edge of the front of his desk and crosses his arms.

"Uh—that's…Zn?"

Mr. Harris blinks lazily at Greenberg before he huffs. "You got lucky, Greenberg. You got lucky," he mutters before shifting his black-framed glasses and his gaze. "Atomic weight?" His eyes zero in on Lydia, who's still primping. "Ms. Martin, if you can stand to take a moment away from your endeavoring goal to become America's Next Top Model, perhaps you could give us the answer."

Lydia snaps her compact mirror shut and cocks her head. "Mr. Harris, I had no idea you knew about that show. You must be a fan. All caught up season nineteen I hope."

Everyone snickers.

Mr. Harris flushes as he straightens and clears his throat. "Yes, well, my girlfriend sometimes—anyway, we're getting off topic. Atomic weight?"

"Atomic weight. Let's see," Lydia says as she carefully curls a lock of her red hair between her pale fingers. "Would it be sixty-five point thirty-nine?"

"Yes. It would be," Mr. Harris grinds out.

Lydia claps her hands and tosses Stiles a triumphant grin. "Yay me," she chirps.

"Oh we're not done," Mr. Harris decides. "Discovery?"

"Known since prehistoric time."

"Word origin?"

Everyone's eyes bounces back and forth between them. It's like a verbal tennis match.

"German,  _zinke_ —of obscure origin, probably German for tine. Zinc metal crystals are sharp and pointed. It could also be attributed to the German word ' _zin_ ' meaning tin."

"Isotopes?"

"Thirty known, and of them, five are stable."

"Properties?"

"Zinc has a melting point of 419.58°C, boiling point of 907°C, specific gravity of 7.133—25°C—with a valence of 2. It is a lustrous blue-white metal, which means its brittle at low temperatures, but becomes malleable at 100-150°C. While a fair electrical conductor, Zinc burns in air at high red heat, evolving white clouds of zinc oxide."

Mr. Harris looks livid. Like he spent his entire morning sucking on a barrel of lemons. Then, he glances down before he smirks. "Ms. Martin, I don't appreciate you using your phone to look up the answers."

"What?" Lydia hisses and glances down.

Stiles notices that her phone is lying in plain sight on the table.

"You're lucky I don't confiscate it and assign you a detention. Leave my class, I have no tolerance for cheating," Mr. Harris says in a tone that says it's final.

Lydia glares at him and glances around, only to see the other students looking at her and shaking their heads in a disappointed and judging manner. Her shoulders begin to shake as she snatches up her bag, and exits the room with as much dignity as she can muster.

Stiles notices the self-satisfied look on Mr. Harris's face and that's all he can take. He packs up his things and follows after Lydia, barely managing to catch a glimpse of her disappear into the girls' bathroom. He runs up to the door and stands there.

"Lydia?"

No response.

"Look don't let him get to you. You and I both know you were giving those answers off the top of your brainiac head. Everyone else—well, they'd be stupid to think otherwise. And Mr. Harris is a dick, but we all know that," Stiles says to the door.

No response.

"Lydia, come on. Don't make me come in there after you because I wi—"

Erica comes flying out of the bathroom, all wide-eyed and pale, almost bowling Stiles over in her haste.

"Erica, what the—"

"Run," Erica barks, shoving him forward.

Stiles frowns in confusion.

"Look just run!" she hisses, getting a firm grip of his wrist and yanking him down towards the other end of the hall.

Stiles almost trips over his own two feet as he tries to match her pace. He's about to demand answers but he hears a high pitched snarl behind them and a quick glance over his shoulder reveals Lydia, completely wolfed out and right on their tails.

"Oh  _shit_!" Stiles exclaims, picking up speed and dragging Erica behind him this time. "What the hell happened?"

"How the fuck am I supposed to know, Stilinski!" she pants as they duck around a corner and up the steps to the second level. "She bursts in the bathroom and locks herself in a stall. I try and be a decent human being and see what's wrong and the next thing I know is that she claws the stall door off!"

"Man, Mr. Harris really must have pissed her off," Stiles decides.

Erica gives him this look.

Stiles ignores it in favor of ducking down another stairwell and tucking them away in the boys' locker room. He pushes her to the last row of lockers and presses a finger to his lips as they crouch down and listen.

The hinges of the door squeak as it opens and there's a brief click of claws that ring sharply through the air.

Stiles notices that Erica's hands are shaking and he scrambles to press their hands together, giving her a reassuring look. He tells her with his eyes that it's going to be okay, even though fear is roiling around in his own stomach, mixing a nauseating cocktail. The last thing they need is for Erica to have a seizure.

A loud sniff sounds off, followed by a deep growl cuts through the air. The snap of Lydia's boots draw closer and Stiles closes his eyes regrettably. Their heartbeat must be banging loud enough for her to hear, therefore, making them easier to find.

"Okay," Stiles whispers very quietly. "You're going to run, and I'll hold her off."

"You want me to leave you?!" Erica hisses, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Unless you want to get eaten along with me, yes!" Stiles snaps back, panicking slightly when Lydia's growls rise in pitch and convert to snarls. "Just do us both a favor and get help. Hopefully she wont have chewed through anything important by that point."

Erica stares at him wordlessly, like she's unable to comprehend who he is. Then, she presses a hand to his forehead and says, "You have the mark the Red Knight—I didn't want to believe—but it's obvious. So obvious." Her eyes are searching his face with awe.

Stiles frowns with reasonable confusion. "Uh—Erica, can we save the weirdness for a time that's less like a—oh I don't know—a life or death situation? Go!"

Erica hesitates before she nods resolutely and carefully creeps to the other end of the lockers before she darts off.

Lydia howls, and Stiles winces, slapping his hands to his ears before he runs in the opposite direction towards another exit. When he glances over his shoulder he sees Lydia giving chase, her eyes a blazing silver color, canines elongated, ears pointed at the tip and delicate fingers stretched out into frightening claws. She's got her sights on him and Stiles feels his heart hiccup with fear and his knees quake with anxiety.

Stiles is so focused on what's behind him, he misses the wall, in addition to the fire extinguisher attached, closing in on him.

Oh but he notices when it comes crashing into him, punching the air right from his gut and making stars dance across his eyes when his forehead makes contact with the cinder blocked wall.

Stiles groans when he falls onto his back. The force of his impact causes the small fire extinguisher to shake and fall off its hook and land onto his stomach. Stiles curls around it with a pained gasp and whimpers, " _Seriously?_  Fuck."

There is gonna be a nice bruise across his stomach now, as well as his forehead.

Lydia stalks closer before she stops, crouching with a menacing growl and holds up her claws, as though she were getting ready to spring.

Stiles scrambles upright, hugging the fire extinguisher to his heaving chest. "Oh God, Lydia—please don't eat me. You're my best friend and you have horrible taste in cinematic romance genres but I love you anyway and will continue to love you if you don't eat me!"

Lydia pauses, cocking her head as her ear twitches.

Stiles pants with a frown. "Lydia?"

Lydia stares at him and blinks. "Sti—iles?" she mutters with great difficulty. Like the words hurt to say.

"Wait you can—you can understand me?" Stiles says as he carefully gathers to his feet, keeping a comfortable distance away. "Please tell me you can understand. I don't want to be eaten, Lydia. Stiles not food!"

Lydia's lip curls back over a fang. "Sti—iles…" she mutters again. "Not—prey…"

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles agrees with an enthusiastic nod. "Me, Stiles. Best friend," he chants carefully. "Lydia loves her best friend. She worships the ground he walks on."

Lydia blinks and watches him with silver eyes as her head cocks again. "Best—friend," she repeats. "Idiot."

"Yeah I—hey!" Stiles says, mildly offended. "You know wolf or not that's still insulting."

Lydia just stalks closer and sniffs at him, reaching out a clawed hand as a deep whine rumbles out of her throat.

Stiles flails a little in panic and sprays her down with the extinguisher until she's completely covered, from head to toe, in white foam.

"Stiles! What the hell!" she shouts, blinking normal green eyes at him.

"I thought you were trying to rip out my intestines!" Stiles snaps back. "I panicked! You can blame me for that!"

Lydia makes a face as she wipes the white foam from her face and flings it off to the side.

And that's how a concerned Erica and a flummoxed Principal Chadwick finds them.

_Eight Minutes Later…_

"So let me get this straight," Principal Chadwick says, threading his fingers together before him and leaning his elbows onto the edge of his desk as he stares at Stiles, Erica and Lydia on the other side. "You two were plotting some type of prank or another on Ms. Martin," he says, looking at Erica and Stiles.

"Yup," Stiles replies, picking at his jeans. "Just a little—adolescent…shenanigans…"

"Harmless at first, really," Erica adds as she crosses her legs and yanks at the hem of her gray sweatshirt.

"Uh-huh," Principal Chadwick says as he eyes them both. "So after you both have taken the time outside of classes to lure Ms. Martin into the boys' locker room, this harmless prank gets out of hand when Mr. Stilinski and Ms. Martin begin to argue, at which Ms. Martin precedes to hit Mr. Stilinski directly in his forehead and halfway through you—" He points at Stiles. "—get so upset that you walk over to the fire extinguisher and—turn it on her?"

Stiles lifts his hands with a shrug and says, "She called me fat."

Lydia and Erica toss him a dry look.

"I have self esteem issues," Stiles merely explains to Principal Chadwick, ignoring the two girls to his right.

Principal Chadwick looks at them all with a wry look. "Right, well—seeing as how inexcusable your behavior has been, I'm going to have to dismiss you three for the rest of the day and make calls to your respective houses. Anything like this happens again and you can count on an in-school suspension. Am I clear?"

The three of them nod.

"Good. Away with you then," Principal Chadwick says with a dismissive flick of his fingers while his other hand picks up the receiver to his phone.

Stiles grabs his back pack as Erica and Lydia grab their things as well.

Out in the hall, Erica turns to them and says, "I'm guessing you have some explaining to do, Stilinski. Full moon's in three days." She takes a moment to eye Lydia. "Better keep Pippi Longstocking here on a leash." She gives a cutting smile before she spins on her heel and disappears around the corner.

"What in the seven rings of hell was that?" Lydia mutters, still looking after Erica.

"That was Erica," Stiles replies faintly. "And she's a paradox."

Lydia makes a brief sound of agreement before she lands Stiles with a determined glare. "We are going to my house and I'm going to shower and get changed while you think about how your going to explain this all to me," she says, pulling her designer bag higher up her shoulder.

"Well personally I'm a fan of ignoring the problem until it goes away," Stiles jokes weakly.

Lydia just stares at him until she twists his ear between her finger, using it to drag him towards the exits.

"Ow, ow—easy Lydia, ow!"

_One Hour Later…_

"Scott is a werewolf and you come from a long line of hunters and you still thought it was a good idea to date each other? That's like—typical Romeo and Juliet," Lydia huffs as she towel dries her strawberry blonde hair.

"So I guess that means you'll be dropping me as a best friend," Stiles says giving her a look.

"No. I just—but you and I are different," Lydia protests. "I can be careful—we can be careful. It's still a risk but whatever. You and Scott were dating so—"

"Yes well, we haven't been doing much dating lately now have we?" Stiles mutters bitterly as he swings to and fro in Lydia's desk chair.

Lydia pauses at that and gives him an assessing look. "Stiles—you know I didn't mean—I'm sorry. That was careless. I'm just trying let everything you've told me sink in. It's not everyday a person wakes up and says, ' _Hey, like being normal? Well too bad, you're a werewolf now and will be until the day you die or until the day someone kills you, which—yes, there are people who'll want to'_  and its just a hard pill to swallow," she admits as she flops down on the edge of her bed. She runs her fingers through her hair thoughtfully. "Everything makes sense now. The attacks, the disappearances, the Hale fire…"

"Wait, what do you mean the Hale fire?" Stiles asks with a frown.

"Well, Stiles—come on. That wasn't just an accident. It couldn't be, not with their whole brood dying the way they did. I'd bet money that someone set the fire," Lydia decides as she cocks her head. "What if—what if the victims of the Alpha have something to do with that?"

"Yeah, and what if they don't. It's not our business, let's not get involved, let's not even think on it," Stiles interjects grumpily.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" Lydia scoffs.

"With my jerk of an ex-boyfriend Scott probably," he mutters.

Lydia goes strangely silent.

"Let's just focus on you, okay? Can we do that? Focus on keeping you in control and not ripping innocents to shreds? Cause that seems like priority right now, but you tell me," Stiles says as he fiddles with Lydia's snow globe.

"All right," Lydia says dutifully, straightening her posture like a queen would on her thrown. "So does this mean I'm a beta or whatever?" she asks as she crosses her legs.

"I don't know," Stiles says honestly. "Your eyes were silver, I'm not sure what that means. I'll have to look it up. I'll have to look a lot of things up. I haven't read much on female werewolves, you'd be my first."

"Great," Lydia replies unenthusiastically.

"It really is," Stiles says with an amused grin.

"Depends on the perspective actually," she mutters as her nose scrunches. "I can smell  _everything_  and,  _gross_ , I can even hear my neighbors having sex."

Stiles feels both his eyebrows sky rocket at that before he laughs.

Lydia throws her lavender towel at him. "It's not funny! There like three hundred years old and— _God,_ the sounds, the bed squeaking. I can't—I just can't. I have lost my ability to can and you have to help me. There has to be some way to control what I pick up and what I smell."

"Yeah, but I don't have a lot of answers for you right now," Stiles says as he shakes Lydia snow globe. He watches the glitter float around in the water before he glances over at Lydia, noting her silence. She staring at him with her head cocked. "What?" he says self-consciously.

"Is it weird that you smell like me? Well—you smell a little like Boyd and Erica. Is it weird that I hate that? I want to rub all over you until their smells are gone and you have to tell me that's normal," she sounds a little panicked saying this.

"Uh—yeah, I guess. Scott used to be that way all the time too. I think that just comes with the territory maybe? You wanting to mark your territory?" Stiles tries for a straight face but the way Lydia glares proves he isn't doing a good job. "No seriously, I'm flattered. You consider me your property and that's cool. Just don't pee on my leg."

"Shut up, Stiles. It isn't sexual or anything. I don't feel the passion of a thousand suns in my loins for you so I think your virtue is safe," she snipes sarcastically and scowls a little. "It's just—I don't know. I feel like you're a part of something—of me. So I get to mark you as mine but I feel like it could keep you safe and—it's instinct."

"Yeah, I've heard that one before too," he says softly. "Trust the instinct I guess."

Lydia reaches up and braids her hair into a side ponytail before she offers a hand. "I can't do anything with my instinct if you're way over there," she points out.

Stiles blinks before he sets down her globe and stands before making his way over to her. He sits down carefully on the edge of her bed as she eyes him like she's trying to decide something.

"Loose the jacket and take off your shoes. Then slide up the bed," Lydia says in a business-like tone.

"Okay," Stiles says simply, a little amused, and does what she says. "I love it when you boss me around, Lydia," he says with a suggestive shrug of his eyebrows.

Lydia rolls her eyes as she crawls up the bed towards him and pushes him onto his back. She ducks under his arm and rests her head on his shoulder while she throws a leg over his waist as they tangle their fingers together.

Stiles stares up at the ceiling as he rolls his bottom lip around in his mouth.

"You know, back in the locker room—all I could see was red," Lydia says quietly. "And the only thing I could think of was to hunt, hunt, hunt. And with you and Erica, it was like seeing the word 'prey' in my mind in big bold letters. But then you said my name and I just—it was like falling into my body again. And the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you, or anyone." She pauses and cocks her head so she can look up at him. "What do you think that was?"

"You finding yourself again," Stiles guesses. "I once read that werewolves find something specific to balance out their primal side with their more human side when they shift. Keeps them in control. My great Uncle Devlin described it as being an anchor." He glances down at her. "I'm your anchor," he teases.

"Stiles, shut up or I will wolf out on you," Lydia warns with an embarrassed flush.

"Oh baby, don't be that way. You know I  _love_  you," Stiles drawls with a ridiculous seventies accent.

Lydia retaliates by biting his shoulder.

"Oh that's it!" Stiles declares and rolls her over, pining her to the bed.

Lydia's eyes flash silver very briefly before they're rolling across her mattress in a poor attempt of some amateur wrestling match. A wrestling match that Stiles loses because Lydia is surprisingly agile and unsurprisingly strong. She keeps him pinned at one point by straddling his waist and pressing his wrists to the bed over his head with a gentle yet firm grip.

It's a little bit of a turn on. Just a little.

Lydia licks at the corner of his mouth and up his cheek, pausing at his eye. " _Submit_ ," she growls in a complete terrifyingly feral way. She growls again when Stiles stays silent and her eyes gleam with silver.

"Submitting! Submitting!  _Totally_ submitting! This is me. In submission," Stiles rambles, feeling absolutely cowed and in no way in the mood to be rebellious.

"Good," she purrs, rubbing her nose against his before she starts to make out with his left eye, adding ridiculous sex noises that has him laughing and squirming under her.

"Stop sexually assaulting my eye, you nympho!" Stiles laughs and manages to buck her off.

Lydia lands on her side and snickers, tossing him the middle finger before sitting up.

Stiles sits up as well with a sigh. "I think I better get home. I'm pretty sure I'm going to get a lecture about my behavior from my parents—well, mostly my mom. My dad's pretty laid back sometimes," he admits with a shrug.

"We're still on for bowling right?" Lydia asks as she watches him put on his shoes and his jacket.

"Yeah, yeah," he mutters unhappily. He extends his pinky and she grabs onto it with hers and they swing their hands back and forth before breaking a part with a sassy snap of their fingers and gently smack each other on the forehead with the heel of their hands. "See you later, Catwoman."

"Later couldn't be soon enough, Batman. Love ya bitch."

"Same here hoe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus concludes part one of this epic countdown until the Full Moon. Are you guys excited? I'm excited! Some crazy stuff is about to happen.
> 
> FORESHADOWING.
> 
> Ehem, but please comment. I love it when you guys talk that talk to me. ;0)
> 
> Your reward is a faster update.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part Two**

Coming home to an infuriated Allison dragging her cheetah pink Victoria Secret suitcase down the steps is not something Stiles could have ever foreseen. Matt was right behind her, carrying two more duffel bags and he flashed a sad smile to Stiles as he passed him going out the front door.

"You get back here young lady, we are not finished talking!" Victoria snaps, standing at the top of the staircase. Chris is doing his best to try and calm her down but to no avail.

Allison throws down her massive suitcase with a frustrated  _thunk_. She blows a quick breath, making her bangs fly away from her eyes and she looks at Stiles, completely ignoring their parents. And for a brief, weird moment, Stiles thinks,  _hey, you got bangs—they look good._  Which morphs into,  _what's going on?_

"Stiles, do me a favor and sit this out on the porch? We need to talk," Allison says, choosing her words carefully and avoiding his eyes.

Stiles nods wordlessly and grabs her suitcase by the handle, turning and following her out the door.

"No—Chris! I am not just going to let her—"

"She's made up her mind and no amount of input is going—"

"—for Godssakes! She's just a child! And we're her parents! We have every right to—"

"—just going to have to let her learn from her mistakes, Victoria…"

Stiles closes the door behind them and turns to face Allison, who's staring at Matt putting her things away in the trunk of his car.

Matt comes over and kisses her on the cheek and whispers something reassuring before he turns to Stiles and offers to take the last remaining suitcase.

Stiles hands it over, still confused and worried.

"I'll wait for you in the car," Matt says to Allison and he holds out his hand to Stiles. "Stiles—hopefully we'll meet up again on happier terms."

"Uh—yeah," Stiles says, still floored as he shakes Matt's hand.

Matt winks and makes his way to his car.

Stiles hears a sniff and when he looks over, Allison is facing away from him, trying her best to scrub her eyes dry. He feels his heart ache at that and he wraps his arms around her from behind.

Allison laughs sadly and sniffs again. She turns so she can hug him properly and Stiles rubs soothing circles into her back despite his confusion.

"Look at me. I'm a mess. And I'm definitely no good at goodbyes," she admits softly, burying her nose in his shoulder.

"Why are you saying goodbye?" Stiles says, wide-eyed as he pulls back.

"Because I am," she replies in a regretful tone. "Matt and I are going to Vegas to elope. Then from there—who knows?"

"Elope?!" Stiles exclaims.

"Yes. But not until the second weekend of March, you know, before spring break," Allison reassures, which really isn't a reassurance for him at all.

Stiles blinks at her, slack-jawed and shakes his head. "I'm sorry Allison—why are you going to Vegas to elope?"

"Because someone once told me that there would be a day when I would be epically right about something and that I would have to fight for it. Well Matt is what I'm fighting for," Allison explains. She reaches down and grasps Stiles's hand. "I've never done something so crazy but at the same time, I just—I know this is what I want. I want him forever, and…" she pauses to shrug meekly. "I don't think it's fair that his parents and my parents get a say in how young we are or when we should get married. That's up to us—come what may. But we've made up our minds."

Stiles stares at her wordlessly before he pulls her into a fierce hug.

Allison chuckles happily and holds him firmly.

"You call me, you text me, you write—I don't care. I'm supporting you, even if I think this is insane, even if it means you're no longer in reachable distance." Stiles pulls back as Allison gives him a tearful grin. "You're my big sister and I love you. Always. So don't make me have to hunt you down just to hear your voice. And don't let weeks turn into months and months turn into years before I see you again, all right?"

Allison sniffs and nods as she wipes away her tears.

"Promise," Stiles hisses.

"I promise that I will call you so much and text you so often that you will be sick and tired of me," Allison says with a wide smile.

Stiles looks at her as his eyes get a little misty. "Never," he whispers sternly and pulls her back into a hug again. "Never."

Allison sniffs and rubs his back, before fisting her hands in his jacket to hold him so tight that it felt like she'd never let go.

Stiles had a hard time loosening his own grip and he felt the tears slide down his cheeks before he could even help it. His heart throbbed and his gut clenched unwillingly. He forces himself to take a step back and Allison sniffs again, ducking her head to dry her cheeks again with the back of her hand. Stiles does the same.

Allison glances at Matt's car before she looks back to Stiles with a sad smile.

"Well go on. Get out of here if you're gonna go," Stiles jokes lightly, tucking his hands in his pockets and squeezing them into fists, just so he can stop himself from grabbing her.

Allison bites her bottom lip and nods again. She turns and starts down the steps but stops when she reaches the sidewalk. She whips around and runs back, throwing herself onto Stiles as she kisses his cheeks.

Stiles silently curses as more tears start to spill down his cheeks, his composure being shaken by her desperate display of affection.

"I love you, Genim. So much," Allison hiccups into his ear. "No way could I have asked for a better little brother."

Stiles keeps his hands in his pockets as he closes his eyes. "You too, Ally. You win all the awards for best big sister. But shut up because this isn't goodbye. It's, see you later."

Allison gives a watery chuckle as she pulls away and nods again. She holds up a fist and Stiles smiles fondly as he bumps his with hers. She exhales, cupping a hand to his jaw and swiping a thumb over his wet cheeks. With one more decided nod, she drops her hand and spins on her heel, making her way down the steps and to Matt's car. She climbs in, pulls on her seat buckle before she peers out the window at him and waves.

Stiles waves back and watches the car drift down the driveway, onto the road and out of sight. He spends the next fifteen minutes crying into his fist before hiccups to a stops and scrubs his face dry with the sleeves of his jacket. When he enters the house again, he sees Chris and Victoria, along with his Aunt Kate, standing and conversing in the front room in hushed tones.

At the sound of the door closing, they all turn and look at him.

Kate cocks her head. "Hm. I see she's gone broken your heart too. You realize what this means don't you?"

"Kate, please," Chris warns gruffly.

"No—he needs to know. Allison has turned her back on us, and you never, under any circumstance, turn your back on family. She's asking to be disowned," Kate says uncaringly.

"You know, Kate—there are a million things I'd like to say to you right now. But I wont, out of respect for my parents," Stiles says with monotone voice as he sniffs.

"Well honey, don't hold back on their account. Because I'm pretty sure that I'll have a million and one responses lined up to counter with," Kate replies easily and gives him a dark smile. "Want to try me kid? Go ahead. But we both know how this is going to end. Facts are facts. You walk away from family and you walk away from your right to be apart of said family."

Chris firmly says, "Now that's enough, damn it. I don't care what your personal opinions are Kate, or what our father says—no matter what Allison does, no matter what  _Stiles_ does, they will always be my children and they will always be welcomed in my household at any given time."

"Oh brother mine, how I envy your heart," Kate says with a mean smile as she dramatically rests a hand over her chest.

Chris frowns at her.

"You'll have to do something about that Victoria. Easy for a man to stray when he doesn't have his priorities straight. And I've been saying this for the longest, but it's time you told Stiles what we are and what we stand for." Kate gives Chris one last look before she waltzes off towards the basement.

Chris stares after his sister with his fist clenched before he shakes his head. Victoria steps closer and wraps her hand gently around the hand and looks up at him with a half-smile as he cups her jaw and stares into her eyes.

"Going bowling," Stiles mumbles and walks to the stairs. He just has to get out of this house.

"Now hold on, not so fast. I got a call from your principal," Chris points out.

"Honey, just—let him be," Victoria says quietly. "We have other things we have to worry about and perhaps it's best if he's elsewhere." The look she gives to him is full of meaning and Stiles finds himself being both curious and worried over it.

Chris clenches his jaw, clearly holding back the argument he wants to give but he exhales in resignation instead. He nods at Stiles and gestures him away with a dismissive flick of his fingers.

Stiles just continues up the steps and disappears in his room. He reappears just a few minutes later with a thicker looking backpack. He's stuffed a pair of clothes along with his books inside.

"Keep your phone on Genim, and remember curfew. If you're going to be staying with Lydia tonight, please text or call so I don't have to wonder and worry," Victoria advises.

Stiles throws up a hand and physically signals that he understands. He's too tired to be sarcastic or anything other than melancholy at the moment.

Victoria and Chris watch their son disappear out the front door before they square their shoulders. Chris cocks his head towards the basement and Victoria nods in understanding. They walk to the door and Chris holds it open for her, letting her slide through before he follows, making sure to lock it behind him.

Victoria gracefully clicks her heels down the steps and frowns disapprovingly. "Boyd, please—don't get blood on my son's drum set. I'd never hear the end of it," she says as she crosses her arms.

Boyd holds a shaking hand over his bloody side, bowed on his knees in pain as he glares up at her.

"If you could be so kind as to move over a few feet, I would be grateful," Victoria continues with a cold smile.

Boyd clenches his jaw and winces as he crawls away from Stiles's drum set with great difficultly.

"Well. Don't expect us to feel sorry for you," Kate says as she unfolds a gray fold out chair and straddles it, resting her arms over the back of it in a nonchalant pose. "You were the one stupid enough to go perusing the Hale property in an adrenaline infused fit of jealous rage. Now did you honestly believe Scott could be so easily cornered? Alone?"

"We asked you time and time again to wait. Our timing had to be absolutely on point, otherwise we'd be burdened with casualties such as this," Victoria adds and shakes her head with a sigh.

"I suppose some good came from this," Anthony comments and briefly spares his ailing son a glance before he pays more attention to his pocket watch. "He's proven to us that Hale and McCall know who the Alpha is. We get one of them, we get the Alpha."

"We don't really have a choice at this point. I'm sure the Alpha's gone and tucked away somewhere else after his run in with your son," Chris points out.

Boyd coughs and spits blood onto the floor.

Kate makes a face. "That's very unappealing," she states.

"Fuck you," Boyd hisses, pressing against the gaping bite wound in his side.

"Sorry sweetheart. I've sworn off bestiality since Derek," Kate says airily.

"Kate," Chris says in rebuke.

Kate holds up her hands. "One should not make bold statements if they do not want a radical response in return. But, I digress," she promises and makes a zipping motion over her mouth.

"I think it's apparent we need to reevaluate our strategy and come to a mutual decision on the ultimate goal," Victoria decides and exhales thoughtfully. "We'll need to lure them out."

"I second that motion," Kate quips and raises her hand. "We'd probably even get it done faster if we got Stiles to—"

"Absolutely not," Victoria interjects and gives Kate a sharp look. "It's bad enough he was dating that little monster. Who knows what might have happened if they'd continue that relationship. No—I'm glad it ended before Stiles could find out about all of this."

"I'm sure you are but, I feel like there's a lot of progress to be made in telling him the truth," Kate points out nonchalantly. "He stole one of my bullets Victoria—he's getting more and more curious. And eventually he's going to string it all together. Then what?"

"We will not involve my son. I've told you that countless times. I will not put him in harms way if it can be helped," Victoria states firmly.

" _Oh_ ," Kate says and feigns a little shudder as she smirks. "Feeling maternal are we, Vicky?" She stands and pushes the chair off to the side. "Guess it works just as well even if the little bastard isn't yours."

"What did you just say?" Victoria hisses as she takes a threatening step towards Kate, but Chris reaches out and holds her back. "You better hold your goddamn tongue, Kate. Because if memory serves me well, you and your fucking inability to control yourself is the reason I  _have_ to be maternal."

Kate just smirks carelessly as she crosses her arms. "What? No thank you?" she says tauntingly. "But I gave you the son you always wanted. If it weren't for me, he'd be shacking up with those rabid sons of bitches, rolling in dirt and bathing in the blood of the innocents, so don't you fucking patronize me because I did what I had to do and you can kiss my ass if you don't think it was to your benefit."

Victoria glares wordlessly at her.

"Do you honestly think for one second that the Stilinskis would have picked you two over the Hales? They had that adoption bagged," Kate points out mercilessly.

"Anything you do is for your own benefit," Victoria snaps back. "So spare me, Kathryn. We didn't ask for your help. We didn't  _need_ your help."

Kate just shrugs. "Look I'm not going to argue with you. I got my revenge and you and Chris got the bouncing baby boy you'd been vying for. Win-win. Now—are we going to plan or are we going to keep going down memory lane?" she says and looks at Chris, to Anthony and back to Victoria.

"Yes," Chris says and gives his sister a look. "Why don't we take this up to my office?"

Kate glides over to the steps.

Victoria follows.

Chris looks at Boyd and then at Anthony. "What are we going to do about him?" he asks as he nods to Boyd.

"I'll take care of him," Anthony says blankly.

Chris nods and says, "Take your time." He claps Anthony over the shoulder sympathetically before goes up the stairs.

Anthony rubs his fingers together as he stares after Chris, then he looks down at his ailing son. "Get up," he says as he eyes Boyd with detached indifference. "Come on. On your feet. Let's make this as quick and as painless as possible." He spins on his heel, not bothering to wait as he reaches in his coat pocket for the gun on his shoulder holster. He fishes for his bullets in his pocket and begins loading his handgun.

Boyd clenches his jaw and steels himself, stumbling to his feet and after his father. They go out to the garage and climb into his father's black SUV wordlessly. Boyd sits silent and hunched in the passenger seat as his father drives them towards the outskirts of Beacon Hills. He turns off of the road and into the deep of the woods, parking just as the sun sets.

Anthony climbs out of the car and slams the door, walking a few paces away.

Boyd watches his father through the windshield before he climbs out of the car and limps after him.

Anthony stops, keeping his back to Boyd as he says, "Did I not tell you that there would be a price to pay for foolishness? I tell you this and still you set your energy to actions—to anger and pettiness." He shakes his head. "What son would burden a father so? To force him to put down his own legacy like a mere dog?"

Boyd doesn't answer. He doesn't think it would matter at this point. Once his father's mind was set on something, there was no use in trying to change it. So he drops to his knees, looks up at the back of his father's head and waits.

"Kwa nini miungu unilaanie na mtoto vile?" Anthony hisses into the air as he stares up at the darkening sky. "Ambao wanaweza kulaumiwa kwa mambo hayo?"

Boyd closes his eyes and listens as his father agonizes over the situation in his native language.

Anthony exhales and squares his shoulders. He turns and walks to Boyd, lifting the gun and taking proper aim. He doesn't spare a moment before he shoots approximately three times.

Boyd cracks his eye open in confusion. He looks over his shoulder and sees the bullet holes in the tree behind him. He turns back to his father with bewilderment.

"I don't know why you look at me like that. Do you honestly believe I would kill you?" Anthony asks as his lips curl in amusement and he lowers his smoking gun.

"To be honest with you, it doesn't seem unlikely," Boyd admits as he wheezes a little, blood dripping down the side of his mouth.

"Hm," Anthony hums and puts his gun back in his holster. "By the gods, you do frustrate me that I am tempted at times to wring that impossibly thick neck of yours. But I am reminded that we reap what we sow and my father warned me in my youth that as a penalty to my arrogant and fastidious ways that I would be cursed with a son that would grow to be the same. And so here we are."

"Here we are," Boyd agrees as he wipes his mouth clean. "Now what?"

"Now—you run. You are your own man. You decide the paths of your future. But make no mistake, Boyd—if we should cross ways, I will do what I have sworn to do and protect as I have vowed to protect. Do not make me choose."

Boyd lowers his gaze and nods in understanding.

"Looks like you're learning a bit of humility. Maybe the bite will not be such a curse," Anthony says as he walks forward and lightly bumps his fist on the edge of Boyd's jaw. "You call your mother when you can. Ease the suffering she will put me through after this, yes?"

Boyd nods again.

"Good." Anthony straightens and hesitates as he reaches out and clasps a hand over Boyd's shoulder. He takes a steady breath, steeling himself and says, "May the gods be with you son. May they bless and keep you. May they lift up their countenance and shine their face upon you. May they be gracious to you and surround you with favor as like a shield. And may they make your enemies your footstool. As your father, I give this blessing to you. Do you accept?"

"I accept," Boyd agrees shakily.

"Then I release you to this world," Anthony responds and squeezes his shoulder. "Good luck." And without another word or a glance, he's gone.

Boyd stares out into the distance and shakily climbs to his feet as he cups a hand over the bite mark on his side.

Omega. That's what he would become. It's not something he wanted.

He needed protection. He needed help—guidance.

He needed a pack.

Boyd clenches his jaw determinedly and limps in the direction of the Hale estate.

He had little choice.

888

Stiles scrapes his spoon along the bottom of the plastic container that previously held his double scoop banana sundae. He lifts the spoon to his mouth and sucks on it as he leans back in the passenger seat of Lydia's car. His honey eyes roam the partially empty parking lot of the bowling alley as Taylor Swift's ' _Innocent_ ' plays lowly in the background.

"Stiles…"

He doesn't spare Lydia a glance as he digs inside the oil-stained bag for his curly fries.

"You know—we're going to have to talk about it sometime," she points out. "You've eaten six cheeseburgers, three chicken sandwiches, some chicken nuggets, two sundaes and four medium curly fries. It's safe to assume at this point that you're trying to eat your pain."

Stiles glances over at her and purposefully stuffs a handful of fries in his mouth.

"I'm suffocating in your depression right now. Seriously. I'm distressed because it's all I can smell, all I can pay attention to. You have to talk about this. Allison leaving is a big deal and—"

"Okay, honestly Lydia, I don't really feel up for a heart to heart." Stiles wipes his greasy hand along his jeans. "Just wanna—seethe in silence and ineptitude."

"Yeah, well, your silent seething is bothering me. It's putting my wolf on edge," Lydia says as she crosses her arms and stares over at him. "And you're not using 'ineptitude' in the right context," she adds. "Seriously, it smells like depression in here."

"Oh my God. Lower the window or something. I'm not talking about this," Stiles says in a final tone. He fishes for his phone in the pockets of his jacket and studies the screen with a frown. "And where the hell is Boyd? You don't just nag someone into doing something and completely flake out."

"Beats me," Lydia says as she lowers her sun visor and studies herself in the mirror. "But it's kind of obvious he's not going to show up. We've been sitting out here for two hours. Not that you've noticed with your silent seething and all."

"Okay, Lydia—that whole tone of voice your doing right now? Not liking it. At all," Stiles snipes back as he rubs his head and sighs. "And what about your friend? They're a no show."

"Oh, Bethany got the stomach flu. She texted me and said she wasn't going to be able to come," Lydia explains as she reapplies some lip-gloss.

"So Boyd's not coming and your Bethany's not coming. We've been sitting out here for two hours and I'm kind of fucking depressed because my older sister ran off into the hills to get hitched," Stiles concludes with a sigh. "You know what, let's just bowl anyway."

Lydia flips up her sun visor as she looks at him with a smile. "Yeah?"

"Definitely. I need to not think or feel right now," Stiles admits and pops open the door. "Place looks deserted anyway. Should be easy to get a lane." He slams her door shut and pockets his phone again.

Lydia slides out of her car and closes her door, using her keys to lock it. She quickly walks up beside him and loops her arm with his, giving him a reassuring smile that he returns partially.

They enter the bowling alley and the lights are turned low. Strobe and disco lights paint every surface in interesting and gleaming colors. It was almost like a skating rink. And it's dead. The place has cleared out, and the last few people still there are cleaning up and getting ready to exit as well.

Stiles drags Lydia over to the checkout counter. A guy in his mid-forties rings them up and after a few minutes of arguing, Stiles is forced to let Lydia pay for the two of them. They grab their shoes, picking up respective sized bowling balls along the way and make their way to their designated lanes.

"Do you even know how to bowl?" Lydia asks as she ties up her shoelaces.

"Yes, Miss Doubts-A-Lot. I know how to bowl," Stiles quips back as he rolls his eyes and ties his shoes.

"I was just asking, I didn't want you to be embarrassed if I got a higher score than you," Lydia says dutifully as she types in their names for the overhead scoreboard.

Stiles laughs genuinely this time. "You didn't  _me_ to get embarrassed?" he snorts and shakes his head.

Lydia stands and blows him a kiss as she grabs her bowling ball. She stands at the end of the lane, lifts her hand to line up for the shot and swings her arm for the release.

Perfect strike.

Lydia spins around with a fist pump. She gives Stiles a pointed look.

"Oh shut up," Stiles grumbles and he clamors to his feet and snatches his ball up.

Lydia snickers and plops down in her seat.

Stiles takes a steady breath as he lines up for his shot. Then he steps forward, pulling his arm back and sending it forward as he releases the ball, cursing when it goes out of alignment.

He gets four pins down and another two down during his spare.

Lydia is just loving it.

That's just how the next hour goes. Two games later, Lydia is in the lead and Stiles is staggering behind disgracefully.

"Dude, you are making me eat it," Stiles complains as he watches his ball go straight into the gutter.

Lydia prances up behind him and gives him a swift smack on his ass. "You are my bitch," she growls playfully.

"Oh God, do it again," Stiles fake moans and hunches over, sticking his ass into her stomach with a wiggle.

Lydia laughs and shoves him away. "Go sit down you loser. It's my turn," she says with a chuckle.

Stiles sticks out his tongue but swaggers over to his seat and watches as Lydia takes the last three winning shots.

"And that's game," Lydia chirps pleasantly, throwing her red hair over her shoulder as she grins triumphantly. "So go ahead and say it."

"Alright, alright," Stiles relents. He stands, placing one hand over his heart and the other hand in the air like a solemn vow, saying, "I, Genim Chlotharius Argent, being of able body and a sound mind, do hereby declare that I am, and shall always be, Lydia Céibhfhionn Martin's bitch."

"Here, here," Lydia chimes with a grave face as she lifts her fist. "And let us also agree to never disclose our middle names to anyone else—and that it will always remain as an unspoken symbol of our bond, our love and respect and loyalty to one another."

"Let the troupe say, ' _Aye!_ ' and then it was so," Stiles agrees with equal graveness. He pauses with a frown and says, "Dear Lord—I do believe we are nerds."

Lydia snorts and closes her eyes as she shakes her head. "Just come here," she snickers.

Stiles smiles and walks over, throwing an arm over her shoulder as he presses his lips to her forehead.

Lydia hugs his middle and they stand that way for a good few minutes.

A blanket of silence looms over them.

"I wasn't ready," Stiles admits quietly. "Allison and I always talked about what we'd do when we graduated high school. We always said we would fly out to New York and spend the next two weeks in a drunken haze. Guess we figured it would make being apart easier. She'd go off to her college and I'd just go off to mine, if I'd wanted to by then."

"But she left today, and you weren't ready," Lydia whispers back as she hugs him closer.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "Kinda makes me feel alone. Kinda feels like she left me alone. She's supposed to be here with me. Every time I go home and pass her room—she's supposed to be there. I knew one day she would be—but not now, you know? Not like this."

"Stiles it's okay to be mad or sad or feel anything. When you love someone and they leave, it's not an easy thing," Lydia says and by the tone of her voice he could tell that she was speaking from experience. "But hey, you have me and I'm not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. I think that you and I are an awesome pair and that with our combined efforts, we can get through virtually anything together."

Stiles looks at her and she stares back at him with warm and open green eyes. He smiles wordlessly and she beams back. He holds up a pinky and she grabs onto it with her own.

The lights go out and all at once they're bathed in darkness.

Lydia growls, and even in the inky blackness, Stiles can see her eyes burning with silver. She pushes him behind her as sniffs, growling again.

The lights turn on and standing not even three lanes away to their left is Leather Sales Rep, Danny and Derek.

"Sorry to crash your date. Well—not really," Leather Sales Rep says with a smirk. He points at Lydia. "You must be Lydia."

Lydia growls as her fingers lengthens out into claws.

"Danny here has told me all about you," he continues. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. I'm Peter. Peter Hale." His lips quirk into an amused grin as his eyes flash red.

Stiles pales as it becomes blaringly obvious.

Peter was the Alpha.

Stiles looks at Derek, but Derek is staring back at him blankly.

"Now, hopefully we can do this all with little to no trouble," Peter says. "Danny, if you would be so kind as to detain Stiles while I have a quick chat with Lydia."

Lydia growls in warning and shifts, looming in front of Stiles protectively.

"Lydia, darling, none of that," Peter tsks, wagging a finger at her reprovingly. "You can trust that my mate will be very gentle with your cub."

Lydia and Stiles look at Danny in surprise but he just smirks as his eyes flash gold and he cracks his neck while he begins to shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two and we're well on our way to even more shocking revelations! Unfortunately my dears, you will not recieve an update until the first week of September, seeing as how I will be going on vacation. 
> 
> Dont worry! I will be writing out the next few chapters over the course of those two weeks, so you can expect a chapter spam come that first week of september. Prepare yourselves for the epic conclusion that is soon coming and please leave comments. I find them highly enjoyable and encouraging.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	9. Chapter 9

**Part Three**

The bowling alley is washed in white light. All the overhead screens are stuck on a loop, which is basically an animation of the bowling alley's name and some dancing bowling pins. Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles notes that the checkout counter is painted with blood, practically water falling down the edge and dripping bloodstained drops onto the carpet below. Stiles understands with stomach-turning clarity that the owner must be dead.

Stiles isn't sure of what Peter will do, but he's very aware that their own deaths could be the endgame. And the very thought makes his fingers twitch restlessly at his sides. It makes his mind swim with solutions and escapes as Lydia widens her stance in front of him. Her shoulders are tensed in a defensive line. He wants to tell her to run, but he's not sure if she'd listen. All her attention is otherwise occupied by Peter and Derek, and mainly Danny.

Danny, who's face is contorted with wolf like features and gleaming gold eyes. He doesn't look like the Danny that Stiles vaguely remembers. There's a more savage edge to him now. Something more unrestrained and it makes Stiles wonder just what Peter had done to him. It would have to be a terrible thing—a mind altering thing—that would have Danny's character so completely changed.

Lydia growls, chest vibrating with it and it rings like a warning bell, making Stiles wonder what she must sense about Danny—what she must think. This isn't her friend anymore. This is someone who might try and hurt them. This is someone that they might have to hurt back if it comes to it. How awful it must be for Lydia to have to realize, to have to sense and instinctively know that. Stiles feels his fingers twitch sympathetically down at his sides.

Danny takes a step forward and Lydia snaps her jaws at him. Her red curls bounce with the motion and the floorboards under their feet squeak nosily when she stomps her high heeled shoe into it. Stiles would be intimidated if he were Danny. But Danny doesn't pay her any mind. He just prowls around them, gold eyes gleaming and focused on Stiles. That makes Stiles feel cagey and just a bit restless. He definitely is not looking to be the rabbit in this scenario.

Rabbits never make it out well in the end.

But Danny has him in his sights like that's exactly what Stiles is. Danny's claws click together when he gives an anxious flick of his fingers and he flexes his sharpened teeth. That only makes Stiles all the more uneasy and his heart sputters a bit in apprehension. This in turn causes Lydia's pointed ear to twitch in his direction and she glances at him, silver eyes narrowed in concern. Stiles shakes his head quickly and tries to steady his heartbeat. He didn't want to put Lydia anymore on edge than she already was.

Lydia eyes him a bit longer before she turns her attention back to Danny. He edges closer without really being near to Lydia, like he's trying to figure out a way past her. He circles them a few times, testing Lydia, keeping in mind that she matches him step for step, never giving him the advantage, never letting more than a few inches of space between her and Stiles.

Stiles is pretty sure Lydia can keep this up all night. He really hopes it wont have to come to that. He'd rather that the both of them hightail it out of there and avoid any and all bloody conflict. But they're both stuck in Peter's sights, and he probably wouldn't take too kindly to them booking it. Even with Lydia, Stiles isn't sure they could handle him on their own. He doesn't want them to have to. So Lydia keeping Danny at bay really is a small matter at this point.

This little dance only last for about a few minutes. Danny gets bold, far too bold for Lydia's liking. He makes a blatant grab for Stiles's arm and she doesn't even hesitate to swipe her claws at his face, gouging his cheek with violent accuracy and causing three bloody stripes to appear. Danny's head snaps to the side with a growl as his skin stitches itself together and his whole body stiffens in anger. His lips twitch over his fangs and the sound he releases from his throat is both threatening and wild.

Stiles swallows thickly as his fingers twitch and his heart sputters again. Lydia pauses in front of him, probably sensing it and the sharp snarl she gives at Danny is a lot more vicious and upset.

Peter looks far too amused. Sadistically amused. Like a king that sits on his throne and makes it his personal pastime to revel in the bloodshed of battling warriors in an open arena of his choosing. His blue eyes are swaying back and forth between Lydia and Danny with a thoughtful smirk. There's something calculating in his expression—something that seems like he's realizing something he hadn't noticed before. It's as if he's weighing Lydia's strength against Danny's. As if he wouldn't mind it if his mate fell to some wily, newly turned she wolf. As if he'd still have advantage of the situation either way. And that expression alone is both frightening and sickening.

And Stiles—

He's not really used to this. Being in the midst of things instead of textually outside of it. He knows what's happening. He's aware. He's read it plenty of times, researched it, and studied it. This is how the she wolf acts in a desperate situation, cornered and threatened—essentially forced to ensure the safety of her cubs. Lydia, being the she wolf in this scenario, leaves Stiles to be the cub.

The _cub_.

He is a cub.

Lydia's surrogate cub.

He is Lydia's surrogate cub and is being treated and protected as such. Never mind the fact that he never actually came from Lydia's loins or has a werewolf gene in his body or even that he and Lydia are virtually the same age. Stiles doesn't know whether to be flattered, fascinated or bewildered by Lydia's reflexive behavior. The mere fact that she would even lash out at her own childhood friend to protect him is just beyond his comprehension at the moment.

Um, what? Just…what? Is this seriously his life right now?

Danny makes another daring grab and Lydia slashes her claws across his chest. Droplets of blood fall against the floorboards at his feet and his white t-shirt is well on its way to being nothing more than a bloodstained shredded piece of nothing. He growls but he takes a few steps back, crouching as if he's ready to spring on them both. Lydia shoves Stiles back some more and crouches as well, clawing at the floorboards and cutting up the wood.

"Well this just won't do," Peter sighs and he looks bored now, still amused, but bored. "Danny."

Danny growls, upper lip twitching over his sharpened canines as he stares at Lydia.

"Danny," Peter says with a little more emphasis and much more command.

Danny snarls but he straightens, cracking his neck as he shifts back. "Peter," he grumbles and glances over to the Alpha.

There's this moment where they share a significant look. Danny, of course, is the first to look away.

"I think that's quite enough," Peter decides as he crosses his arms and cups his chin thoughtfully.

"Why?" Danny asks as he turns his back to Lydia with a small smirk. "We were just getting ready to play."

Lydia straightens and her shoulders shake as she attempts to shift back. It takes her a little longer but she manages it fairly well for a first try.

"How've you been, Lydia?" Danny asks as his smirk vanishes. And that's a little more uncomfortable than anything else. "I can tell you how I've _been_ ," he growls as his eyes flash gold before returning to normal. "Not that you and Jackson ever cared for anyone else's problems outside of yourselves." He takes a moment to evaluate Stiles. "Although lately, it seems you've dug deep enough and salvaged through whatever's left of your heart to feel something for the pretty human."

"Rugged. Handsome. These are adjectives I prefer. Just going to throw that out there," Stiles quips and carefully avoids Danny's eyes.

"Stiles," Lydia rumbles disapprovingly and gives him a sharp look from over her shoulder.

Stiles shrugs sheepishly but keeps quiet.

"He's funny isn't he?" Danny says flatly but eyes Stiles all the same. "Heard from Jackson?"

"Sure. About as much as I've heard from you," Lydia says with a tense frown.

Danny cocks his head briefly and makes a regrettable sound that's not genuine in the least.

"What happened to you?" Lydia asks quietly.

"That's a question I've never heard you ask before," Danny comments with dry amusement. "I have to say, that if you looked in the mirror, ignoring that tendency you have to ogle yourself for just a moment, you'd see that you're not far from becoming what I have."

"But I'm not," Lydia denies. "You're different now. I don't know what he's done to you Danny but—" She pauses and glances at Peter who meets her stare with a fair amount of amusement. "If you want me to apologize for how I've treated you in the past, I can."

"I don't want your apology Lydia," Danny says simply. He looks at Stiles as his lips curl into something more devious. "I just want some one on one time with your cub."

"Out of the question," Lydia replies instantly, hackles rising again.

Derek frowns and glances back and forth between Lydia and Stiles.

"My, you are attached," Peter notes with blatant fascination. "Just what is it about you Stiles that makes all the guys and gals so riveted?" he wonders aloud as his gaze sweeps over Stiles from head to toe.

"I have undeniable charisma," Stiles answers flatly.

"That you do, but I believe it's something else," Peter says with an enigmatic tone of voice. His eyes twinkle as he smirks, and Stiles is distantly suspicious that there's a lot more he isn't saying. That there's a lot more he already knows. "What year were you born Stiles?"

"What?" Stiles retorts with a confused frown.

"Your birth. The year," Peter clarifies without really clarifying at all.

"Uh—1996," Stiles responds unsurely.

Peter nods and tucks his hands behind him with a put-upon expression of thoughtfulness. "1996—you wouldn't, by chance, happen to know what else occurred that year?" he asks airily.

Stiles looks away, then back to Peter, over to Derek briefly and away again. He understands vaguely where this is going. "The Hale fire," he says quietly.

"Well, someone has been doing their research. Not surprising really, that kind of habit is genetic I'm told," Peter quips with a noncommittal gesture of the hand. "You're a smart boy, you seem well-rounded, so riddle me this. How many remains were found?"

"Twelve," Stiles mutters and fidgets when Lydia looks at him with a confused frown. His fingers twitch at his sides when Danny and Derek stare at him as well, both with unfathomable expressions, as if they know what Peter's getting at.

"One more time," Peter encourages.

"Twelve," Stiles repeats, louder this time.

Peter nods and says, "Did you know that outside of Derek, Laura and myself, I can name seven other family members off the top of my head that lived in that house and was in it at the time it was burnt to the ground. So altogether Derek, that's how many Hales?"

"Ten," Derek grumbles.

"Ten," Peter echoes with an odd sort of smile. "And what does that mean Stiles?"

Stiles fidgets and glances around with a shrug. "I don't know," he says honestly because he doesn't.

"That means," Peter starts. "That there were two people accounted for, that should not have been. Two people who were not Hales." He pauses suddenly and then says, "Where exactly were you born Stiles?"

"Mars. What does it matter?" Stiles counters impatiently.

"Oh it matters quite a bit. You'll learn that soon enough," Peter promises and then turns his gaze to Lydia. "But first things first. I didn't come all this way to have a little stroll down memory lane with your pup. I came to make you a proposition."

"I respectively recline," Lydia says decidedly.

"Come now, you haven't even heard what it is I'm about to say," Peter points out. "You know I don't have to be civil, yet I am."

"Same here," Lydia growls, eyes flashing silver. "So sorry, I'm not sorry. I don't exactly make it my business to accept propositions from murderers."

Danny growls threateningly at her and Lydia snarls right back at him.

Peter tsks. "Lydia, seeing as how you're new, I'm willing to excuse your radical behavior and give you one more chance to redeem yourself. I need you to cooperate, because I find myself short on time. And that does something to man's patience. His tolerance becomes very thin. I assure you that this is in your best interest. As well as your cub, if you catch my meaning."

"Don't threaten me with my—Stiles," Lydia says, correcting herself but the gesture is useless. Stiles knows very well what she would have said, no point in sparing his feelings at this point. This is exotically weird on so many levels.

"No?" Peter challenges.

Lydia gives him a sharp look.

"I would put him in Danny's care," Peter suggests.

"I would not give a fuck," Lydia hisses before snapping her jaws at Danny again.

Danny only smirks and shifts without giving it another thought. It's clear he's doing it to provoke Lydia.

"I'm very surprised at the hostility. From my understanding, you and Danny go a long ways back. A tightly knit duo," Peter comments lightly.

"There's been slight turn of events," Stiles blurts out in exasperation, indicating with his hands to Danny's wolf like features. "I don't think they're on the same page anymore."

"Ah, yes, well. Small matter," Peter retorts rather flippantly. "Stiles—perhaps you can convince Mama Wolf here that Danny will certainly cause you no harm."

"I don't exactly know that," Stiles points out, fingers twitching at his sides.

"But I do," Peter reassures. "He will do nothing that I would not have asked of him. And for now, I'm asking him to just keep an eye on you while have a quick chat with Lydia."

"Well I don't exactly know you," Stiles snaps with a frown. "And the things I have heard and seen aren't exactly encouraging at all."

"I would swear to you, by my own life, that I would never see you harm," Peter promises and places a hand over his chest as if to make a vow. "Your life is profoundly important to me."

"That's flattering," Stiles mutters sarcastically.

"But despite my regard for you, there are words I would like to have with your redheaded protector," Peter continues.

"Strawberry blonde," Stiles corrects. "And anything you have to say to her, you can say in front of me."

Peter shakes his head and tucks his hands behind him. "I'm afraid our discussion must be spoken in confidence. I'd hate to have to use delicate force and remove you myself," he says.

"No," Lydia growls firmly.

Peter face goes blank as his eyes flash red.

Stiles may or may not be panicking a little.

"Then how about this," Peter says as he walks over to the side of the check out counter and grabs the broom lying against it. He breaks it over his knee and takes the sharper end and tosses the other off to the side carelessly. He returns to his previous spot beside Derek and casually studies the frayed end of the wood. "If you don't cooperate," he continues as he lengthens his nails into claws and begins to sharpen it into an arrow point. "I will not hesitate to run you through and though it will not kill you, you will have wished it had because I will have my mate take your pup outside and carve nice little designs into the skin of his back until all you can hear is his pretty little screams and all you'll be able to do is try and heal around this pointy stick and smell the sharp tang of his blood."

Lydia pales and an unhappily distressed sound unfurls from her throat as she walks closer to Stiles, keeping him tucked behind her.

"Your choice Ms. Martin," Peter says flatly.

Lydia glares helplessly at him and glances towards Danny. "Not—not him," she mutters.

"Then who?" Peter questions.

"I'll do it," Derek says.

Peter glances at his nephew, as does Stiles. Even Lydia and Danny give a sudden pause.

"I'll take him," Derek says again. And without pause, he approaches Lydia. He stops a few steps away and jams his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket as he leans his head back, meeting Lydia's eyes.

Stiles watches as Lydia studies him avidly, chest rumbling as her silver eyes narrow. This continues for a good three minutes before Lydia relaxes, eyes returning to normal before she makes a vague sound of acceptance, turning her face away to watch Danny again.

"Excellent," Peter says with a pleased smile. "Oh and, before I forget—Derek, if you could," he says, holding out a hand.

Derek stalks forward and rudely shoves a few fingers in Stiles's left pants pocket and despite Stiles's flailing and protests he pulls Stiles's phone free and tosses it to Peter.

Peter catches it with ease and a small smirk. He gives Derek a dismissive flick with his free hand as he starts scrolling through Stiles's contacts.

Derek reaches for Stiles, gets a firm grip on one of Stiles's wrists and yanks him towards the arcade room on the other side of bowling alley. Stiles tries to dig his heels in and prevent the progression but he's not as strong as Derek.

When they reach the arcade, Stiles gets shoved through the doorway.

"Easy," Stiles snaps, turning to face him quickly.

Derek's face remains blank as he stands in the doorway.

Stiles mutters and kicks the empty can of soda on the carpeted floor at Derek. It hits him in the stomach and Stiles is forced to bite his bottom lip and glance at him a little anxiously.

Derek's eyebrows twitch but he stays as is.

Stiles pretends not to be relieved. "This is the wrong day for me," he mutters unhappily. "I'm sure you can smell how unhappy I am."

Derek doesn't confirm it.

"You know, not that this isn't fun, but this isn't fun," Stiles says as he glares at Derek. He glances over Derek's shoulder but he doesn't see anything but a wall. He hates that he's so far from Lydia. He doesn't want her to get hurt—he couldn't stand it if something happened to her and he'd done nothing to help. "You do realize this is ridiculous?" he says.

Derek stares at him blankly. The beeps and whirs of the game machines make up for his lack of responses in an odd way. Even robots make more noise than this guy does.

"Is this usually how you and your uncle play it? Werewolf mafia right?" Stiles asks, not without sarcasm and he's not surprised when doesn't get an answer. "What exactly does he want with Lydia? Or my phone for that matter?" he asks as with a frown.

Derek, again, doesn't answer.

"Silence. That's helpful," Stiles mutters and sighs in frustration. "I'm wondering if you've known this whole time that he was the Alpha. And if you did, then what? You were stringing Scott along?"

Derek stares openly at him.

"Does Scott know your double crossing him?"

"What reason would I have to do that?"

"He speaks!" Stiles exclaims dramatically.

"I'm serious, Stiles. What makes you think he doesn't know about any of this either?" Derek counters.

"I know he wouldn't go around killing people for no good reason—or at all," Stiles retorts with a frown.

"Trust me," Derek says lowly. "My uncle would argue that he has every good reason."

Stiles furrows his eyebrows as he shakes his head. "Does this have to do with the fire? Does it have to do with what he was asking me?"

Derek's shoulders stiffen noticeably.

"And it's okay with you that he's doing these things?" Stiles questions as he watches Derek closely. "You don't seem the vengeful type."

"It's complicated," Derek merely says. "Everything is always complicated."

"Murder's never complicated. Its just murder," Stiles says. "And these are people your killing. No matter if they deserved it or not."

Derek just stares at him. "Do you enjoy looking at things so black and white?"

"I have a unique perspective on things," Stiles answers honestly.

"In the right circumstances—or even in the wrong ones," Derek begins. "A reason, survival or little to no choice can be the deciding difference in choosing whether someone lives or dies. Like it or not, survival will always be our most basic instinct and we will choose it every time, human or not. You'd give your life for your family and friends but you'd also take a life to ensure their protection—to ensure yours."

Stiles says nothing, for the exact fact that he has nothing to say.

"I know you, Stiles," Derek says lowly. "I know you because I sense things about you that other people wouldn't care to pay attention to. You hold back your true potential. Your capable of a lot more than you let on but what I don't understand is why your satisfied to just study things with a scientific and an analytical indifference."

"You don't know me, Derek," Stiles says, fingers twitching. He fidgets under Derek's gaze.

"No?" Derek challenges. He assesses Stiles wordlessly, giving a brief pause before he stalks forward.

"Uh—" Stiles stumbles back, knocking into the edge of the pinball behind him and cursing when Derek boxes him in by placing his hands on the corners of the machine.

Derek just stares at him as he shifts slowly, eyes gleaming an electrified blue.

Stiles steadies his heartbeat.

"You're not afraid," Derek hisses through his sharpened teeth. "You're never afraid when you should be."

Stiles stares at him in confusion.

"Your heartbeat," Derek continues, lifting his hand and sliding his claws over Stiles's Adam's apple, over his collarbone and down to his chest and over his heart. "It doesn't speed up from fear," he notes, dropping his gaze to his hand. "It speeds up from adrenaline. As werewolves, that kind of bodily reaction comes natural. For humans, it has to be learned." He shifts back as he looks at Stiles carefully. "How did you learn?"

Stiles stays defiantly quiet.

"You're a fighter, but you hide it. Why?"

Stiles thinks of every reason why and still he says, "It's complicated."

Derek scoffs and backs away but only a few steps.

"You don't really answer any of my questions so why should I even do the same?" Stiles says and crosses his arms.

"You really have no idea do you?" Derek questions with an intense sort of expression.

"Idea about what?" Stiles says.

Derek's eyes flash with electric blue before they dampen into a wistful green. He grows strangely quiet and he stares until this faraway look usurps his usually blank and remote expression.

"Derek?" Stiles says unsurely, uncomfortable and curious by it.

"My uncle—he has a fascination with you," Derek says simply as he trails his eyes over Stiles's face, pausing on his lips. "I'm not sure why. It's not a particularly good sign that he is." His eyes dart over to Stiles's ears, to the fringe of his hair, to the freckle along his jawline and back to his lips again. "There's something about you—something that he wants. My uncle is precise when it comes to certain things and there's something very specific that he wants from you. Something that only you can give." His eyebrows furrow together.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Stiles says honestly, fidgeting against the machine as Derek leans closer.

"He won't tell me," Derek admits. "I think he assumes it'd give me leverage over him. It would probably even clarify whatever it is we're doing."

"You know it's fantastic that you have no idea," Stiles mutters sarcastically as he tucks his hands away in his back pockets. "I would've thought for sure in the midst of all the innocent bloodshed you guys would've paused and said ' _I think we might be murderers_ '. Just saying—but I guess I'm always saying."

"You do," Derek agrees and then corner of his lips twitches.

"Whatever," Stiles mutters and chews on his bottom lip. He goes right back to worrying about Lydia.

Derek makes a vague noncommittal sound as his eyes traces Stiles's collarbone. Stiles can't actually tell what he's thinking. The guys is about as expressive as lamp, which is to say, not at all.

Stiles sighs and mutters as he crosses his arms. He lets a few beats of silence pass before he says, "How's Scott?"

"Difficult."

Stiles feels the corner of his lips quirk at that before he snorts. "Yeah, I'm sure," he mutters.

Derek eyes dart to Stiles's mouth with a frown.

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. People staring at his mouth—that has always been a gender-neutral problem he's faced quite frequently. It would be annoying if it weren't slightly amusing. He always gives people one free pass because most of them don't even realize what they're doing—and even Derek in this case is no different. Then again, he really doesn't like Derek, so why should he show him any courtesy?

He won't.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't stare at my mouth," Stiles says casually.

Derek's gaze shoots up and he shifts uncomfortably.

Stiles chuckles quietly to himself before he shakes his head. He glances away as he chews on his thumbnail, counting the pinball machines, then the crane machines until his gaze lands on the DDR machine. The lulling whirrs and beeps and whistles keep his anxiousness at bay for the moment.

"He doesn't stop talking about you," Derek says suddenly, eyebrows still furrowed.

Stiles glances at him with a questioning frown.

"Scott," Derek clarifies. "He doesn't say a thing when my uncle's around, or even with Danny. But when it's just the two of us—you're all he ever talks about."

Stiles chews on his bottom lip and looks away with a head shake. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know," Derek replies.

"You're a bad liar," Stiles mutters and chews on his thumbnail again. "Got what you wanted didn't you?"

Derek frowns but doesn't say anything.

"You know, after he broke up with me, I thought about tracking you down and grilling you for answers." Stiles drops his hand and shrugs with a bit of frustration. "I even thought about threading monkshood around a bat or a led pipe and just…" he trails off and shifts his gaze away.

"You don't seem the vengeful type," Derek retorts, throwing Stiles's words from earlier right back at him.

Stiles gives a wry smile and says, "Should I be blaming you?"

"Scott is his own person. He does what he wants," Derek merely says.

"Maybe," Stiles says. "Maybe I just want to know what influences what he wants," he says and gives Derek a pointed look. He holds the look before drops it and shifts from foot to foot. "I think about him. All the time. Even when I tell myself not to." His fingers twitch anxiously at his sides again. "I'm only telling you this so that you can tell him that—so you can tell him."

"Why do you waste your time on him?" Derek asks suddenly. "He's young. Easily manipulated. Unable to find equal footing."

"Does it matter really?" Stiles counters. "I find it odd that an old man like you would bother meddling with the affairs of us youngsters."

Derek looks down and smirks in amusement. "I'm a lot younger than you think," he offers.

"I don't think because I really don't care," Stiles retorts and crosses his arms, shifting from foot to foot. "And it was stupid of me to even talk about Scott with you, especially when you could very well be the reason we aren't together."

Derek lifts his gaze with a shrug and says, "Maybe I think your worth more than the trouble that Scott is."

"Hm," Stiles says as he cocks his head. "Is Derek Hale _actually_ interested in me?"

"Don't get smart kid. I'm merely stating facts. Think of it as a completely platonic outside point of view," Derek clarifies as his expressions lulls into something more unreadable. "You're attractive, but you're not exactly my type."

Stiles is the one to shrug this time. "I'm told I have the tendency to grow on people. Kind of a relentless charisma. I don't think me being your type would matter once you'd try me on for size," he merely says.

Derek stares at him.

"Dude—I'm kidding. Though I don't know why. I'm probably developing a case of Stockholm syndrome," Stiles says with wry chuckle as he threads his fingers through his hair. "This conversation isn't really going where I wanted it to."

Derek just gives him this unfathomable look. He seems to be on the verge of saying something, but before he can his ear twitches and he cocks his head towards the doorway.

Danny appears, looking bored and unsettled. "Babysitting's over. You can hand him over now. Peter's ready to go. Cop's are going to be here soon," he says and glances briefly at Stiles, tossing him his phone before he turns away and wanders off.

Derek keeps his head cocked towards the doorway for a few more moments before he turns back to Stiles. His eyes flash with blue as he stares at Stiles and whatever he wants to say gets sidelined in favor of spinning on his heel and leaving wordlessly.

Stiles breathes a little easier when Lydia appears in the doorway a second later, scanning him almost frantically. She looks a bit pale, wary and quite haggard.

"You alright?" Lydia asks quietly.

"Fine. More worried about you," Stiles admits as he approaches her and pockets his phone, making a mental note to look through it later.

Lydia just shakes her head with an exhausted sigh.

"What did he want?" Stiles asks.

Lydia doesn't answer. She just threads their fingers together and pulls him out the arcade, around the corner and out the front entrance of the bowling alley. She takes a deep breath, looking relieved to be out in the open air.

Stiles doesn't press for answers because she seems overwhelmed as it is.

After several beats of silence, she says, "Listen Stiles. We're going to have to string together a story. We can't—we can't say anything about Peter or Derek or Danny."

"But they—"

"I know. I know. Just trust me on this," Lydia pleads.

Stiles stares at her for a few moments before he nods wordlessly.

"Good," Lydia sighs and she shifts from heel to heel thoughtfully. "This is what we're going to have to say…"

The police come, as expected, and they get questioned, as expected. Sheriff McCall questions them separately and it only takes about thirty minutes before they're sent on their way.

The car ride to Lydia's house is an uncomfortable one because there's a loaded silence between them. Stiles wants to ask but Lydia remains defiantly quiet about it all. That raises even more questions, but he can be patient. He can wait until she's ready to talk.

They creep silently into the house and up the steps to her room. She closes the door behind them and kicks off her shoes, immediately tucking away in her bathroom. Stiles sits at her desk and texts him mom, briefly mentioning that he'd be staying overnight at Lydia's. His mother's reply is an instant, ' _Be safe_.'

Stiles turns to and fro in Lydia's desk chair before he grabs her remote and turns on her TV. Lydia eventually emerges from the shower in a green towel with wet hair and red eyes. She drops her towel carelessly and starts to change right in front of him. Stiles has seen her naked enough times not to be surprised or embarrassed anymore. In fact he could probably count on two hands how many times they'd seen each other naked. He's more concerned about the fact that its obvious she been crying.

Lydia clips her hair up into a bun as she crawls onto her bed. She doesn't look him in the eyes as she says, "Go take a shower, Stiles."

Stiles eyebrows lift but he doesn't question it. He showers and uses her soap, wincing as he does because he's not really all that fond of smelling like lilacs but Lydia didn't have anything else he could choose from. He comes out, wet and a little cold because of the air coming from her active ceiling fan. He shrugs into a pair of boxers and climbs in beside her.

Lydia is propped up against her purple pillows and watching some Lifetime movie about some underage pregnancy pact. Stiles already feels himself drifting off as he curls up beside her. Lydia glances at him and threads her fingers through his hair. He presses a quiet kiss to her elbow before he lets his eyelids drop.

"Stiles."

"Hm?"

"The Spring Formal is next week."

"That's kind of early," Stiles notes with a frown.

"We always have it on the first week of March. It comes right before spring break. I think the school's committee didn't want it so relatively close to prom," Lydia explains.

Stiles makes a noncommittal sound and closes his eyes again.

" _Stiles._ "

"Hm?"

Lydia nudges him with her elbow.

Stiles grins but keeps his eyes closed. "You trying to hint at something?" he teases.

"What would I possibly be hinting to you about?" Lydia counters airily.

"Hm," Stiles hums again. He yawns and sits up, leaning over the edge of the bed for his book bag and fishing through it. He makes a vague triumphant sound as he locates a folded up piece of paper. He sits up again and turns to Lydia, handing it over.

Lydia sits up too with a curious frown as she accepts it. "What's this?" she asks as she eyes it.

"Ham," Stiles retorts sarcastically as he lies back against her pillows again. "Open it."

Lydia does and her mouth immediately curls into a smile. "Lydia—will you be my platonic date to the dance?" she reads with a humored laugh. She makes a sound that a mix between a squeal of delight and a pig dying as she curls around Stiles like an affectionate octopus. "Stiles! You used glitter!" she chirps excitedly.

"Yeah well—I hate glitter but I'm madly in love with you so I made an exception," Stiles says in a blasé sort of tone.

Lydia laughs again and snuggles closer as she holds up the paper and they both eye it. "Love the fuchsia pink. Favorite color of glitter forever and always. Oh, and I love the stick figures," she admits as she eyes the picture with a smile.

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh. Definitely better than what you drew in that card for me for Valentines Day," Lydia says with a decided nod.

"What? That was pure artistic genius," Stiles argues.

"My left eye was like lopsided and my nose looked like a crooked 'J'—"

"Oh shut up. That was perfect replication and you know it!"

"—not to mention you drew my hair like pubic hair."

Stiles busts out laughing.

Lydia laughs a little too. "Shut up, it's not funny. I had a pile of pubic hair on top of my head! And you—you drew yourself with glasses and weird Elvis hair."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did! You did! You looked like a greaser!"

"Your face is a greaser."

"You're so mature—I just—I can't even with how mature you are."

"Well fine, see if I ever draw you anything ever again," Stiles says with a dramatic hurt tone.

"Awe, Stiles. Don't be like that. Look, I love it. I'll put it away with all the little cards and pictures you drew," Lydia says before she starts laughing.

Stiles gives her the middle finger and a flat look.

"You can't be mad at me. You know why? Because I'm going to the dance with you and we're going to have a great time and you're going to let me dress you—don't make that face, I have great taste and you know it—and that'll be that," Lydia decides.

Stiles knows she's right but he still gives her a put-upon frown and mumbles, "I guess."

"It will great," Lydia promises and kisses him.

Stiles doesn't stop frowning and points to his lips. "I deserve another," he mutters.

"You big baby," Lydia snorts and rolls her eyes before she kisses him again.

Stiles smiles and wraps and arm around her shoulder as she rests her head on his shoulder. He threads their fingers together as he stares up at the ceiling. The TV hums in the background and the light of the screen illuminates and scatters the shadows of the room.

"Lydia?"

Lydia hums.

"What happened with Peter?"

Lydia doesn't answer right away and when she does, she says, "I don't want talk about it. Doesn't matter anyway. I said no and I meant it. Not worth dwelling over."

Stiles blinks tiredly up at the ceiling.

"Can we just not think about it? Any of this? Can we pretend we're just a couple of normal of teenagers planning for a stupid high school dance?"

"We can pretend," Stiles says. "But I don't think it'd do much good."

Lydia says nothing.

"Lydia—with the way things are now," Stiles starts. "I think we'll always have something we're going to have to worry about or deal with. But I think as long as you and I are in it together, we can deal."

"Well we're going to have to because I can't do this on my own," Lydia admits.

"Wouldn't want you to," Stiles mutters and squeezes her fingers gently.

Lydia smiles into his skin. "Deal?"

"Deal," Stiles promises.

"Let me protect you," Lydia whispers suddenly.

"Sure. As long as I can do the same," Stiles replies with a bemused grin.

"No I—I'm serious Stiles," Lydia says firmly. "Let me do what I need to do to protect you okay? You're important to me."

"I said yes—but you're important to me too Lydia," Stiles points out. "We can protect each other."

Lydia gives a noncommittal sound of agreement.

Stiles succumbs to the stress and emotional exhaustion of the day and falls asleep. He dreams of fire and cribs and tombstones.

In the morning, he remembers none of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhh. Don't tell, but I'm sneaking this chapter in. I wasn't supposed to but I couldn't help it! Next chapter will be the last, then comes the interlude and then the last part (sequel) of the series.
> 
> Get excited and comment. Love you guys! ;-))


	10. Chapter 10

_The drums begin at noon but the wrestling waits until the sun begins to sink._

**-Chinua Achebe**

888

The days following Lydia and Stiles's run in with Peter and his brood are more than what Stiles expects.

Stiles figures Peter, Derek and Danny are trying to stay under the radar and out of the news. This, in turn, makes him apprehensive. He can't help but to feel that the reason things are so mellow with them is because something big must be coming. And strangely enough, it feels like he's the only one that doesn't know what it is.

His suspicions start when Boyd misses school for two days straight. Then what makes it even more odd is the fact that Scott misses those correlating days as well.

There's tension in his own household between his parents and Aunt Kate. They still mix words with each other but it's different. It's like one wrong thing, one wrong move, could set them all off at any moment. His dad and his aunt don't even wait until the middle of the late evening before they tuck away in the garage and then leave the house altogether, not returning until noon the next day.

Allison isn't returning his calls.

Scott isn't returning his calls either, nothing new there though, but he has Isaac and Erica ignore him also. That's a bit more frustrating.

Stiles has become the unofficial one and only captain for the Lacrosse team since Scott has been a no show. Coach Finstock has grown frustrated and confused over the fact that his key players keep disappearing. So he kind of looms over Stiles during games and practices like he's afraid Stiles will disappear at any moment.

Lydia is acting strange as well. Oh she puts up a perfect front for everyone else, but Stiles can see through it. She looks haggard and tired, like she isn't getting sleep at night. She keeps giving these anxious twitches and staring at the screen of her phone, jumping when it vibrates or lights up. If Stiles asks, she always gives him this put-upon smile and changes the subject, talking about the upcoming dance instead. They still hang out after school but she always ushers him home with a repeating promise they'll have their sleepovers again, soon, just not now.

When the night of the full moon comes, Lydia texts him and says she's going to spend it alone, even though they had agreed they'd spend it together. Stiles is uneasy about leaving a wolfed out Lydia to her own devices, but she assures him it'll be fine—that it might even be better if she does it on her own, and that she's just going to run around in the woods until its all out of her system. She doesn't really give him a chance to argue because she turns off her phone and avoids him all of Saturday.

So Stiles just spends that whole day cooped up in his room, alone at home since the rest of his family had shipped out. They give him brief excuses: furniture hunting, grocery shopping, and auto maintenance, blah, blah, bullshit lies. Stiles kind of wants to tell them that he knows what they're really up to. But he doesn't, just for the simple fact that he'd have to explain how and why.

Instead, he sits on his bed, chewing on the eraser of his pencil, constantly checking his phone and fretting over the well being of, not only Scott, but Lydia as well. He gets his homework done and he falls asleep spooning his phone while horrid reruns of Jersey Shore hum away in the background.

A hot tongue sliding across his cheek, early that Sunday morning, is what wakes him up. When he opens his eyes, Lydia is leaning on her elbows against the side edge of his bed, looking at him with tiredly anxious and relieved green eyes. There are bags under her eyes and her hair is tremendously untidy and wet. She looks like she's been up all night and had barely taken the time to stop home for a change of clothes and a quick shower.

"I didn't really," Lydia murmurs tiredly as she threads her fingers through his hair and traces her exhausted eyes over the fringe of his hair. "Had some spare clothes in my trunk. Grabbed them when I felt like myself again." She takes a moment to yawn as her blunt nails scratch along his scalp and her eyelids droop. "Climbed through your window and used your shower. Wanted to watch you—watch you sleep. Made me happy—you being safe…" and by the time's she's gotten that last word out she's fallen asleep, just like that, standing on her knees and dropping her forehead to the crook of her arm, her other hand still tangled in Stiles's hair.

Stiles glances towards the blocky red numbers on the screen of his clock on his nightstand and notes it's barely even five a.m. He carefully sits up and gathers Lydia in his arms, pulling her on his bed so that she can lie beside him. He tugs the covers over them and hugs her close, falling asleep with even more questions edging along his conscious mind. When he wakes up six hours later, she's gone.

But it keeps happening, every morning for the next week. Sure, when he wakes up, she's gone again. But she's bright and smiling and indifferent when they join up together in the halls of the school and stay side by side throughout the rest of the day. She still doesn't let him sleepover. She still turns her phone off as soon as she ushers him out her house, to his jeep and out onto the road for home. The bags under her eyes are getting deeper.

That restlessness follows them even as they shop for dresses and suits that will mesh well together when they go to the formal that Saturday. She tucks away between the racks of clothes and stares until Stiles has to nudge her back into reality again. She still checks her phone more than she normally does. It still feels like she's edgy and strung. It still feels like there's something she isn't telling him. It stills feels like she's avoiding his questions and concerns.

Yet when the sun rises every morning, she's always there, leaning against the side edge of his bed on her knees, licking a wet stripe against his cheek and threading shaking fingers through his hair before she lowers her guard long enough to succumb to sleep.

Boyd is still missing, a week has passed and he's still missing. So is Scott.

Allison still won't return any of his calls or texts. He doesn't even have Matt's number, something he should have thought to get. He's been kicking himself about that. He has no idea where she and Matt are at by this point and that's something he's forced to add to his list of worries.

His parents and Aunt Kate are still acting off.

It isn't until the day of the dance does something give.

And that's when all hell breaks loose—

—and shatters his heart to pieces.

888

Chirp. _Buzz._ Chirp. _Buzz._ Chirp. _Buzz._ Chirp.

Stiles groans from underneath his pillows and feels around his bed until his fingers brush his vibrating phone. He peeks one eye open to look at the screen and groans again when he sees whose calling, not to mention the time. He swipes his thumb across the screen and lays his phone over his ear, dropping his hand as his cheek steadies it and closes his eyes.

" _Oh Stiles…_ "

"No."

" _Love of my life—_ "

"You're evil."

" _Reason I breathe—_ "

"I want to die."

" _Air beneath my glorious wings—_ "

"Seriously, Lydia, _Satan_ is kinder," Stiles complains.

Lydia laughs on the other end, chipper as ever.

"Too early."

" _Don't be a baby._ "

"Why not? They get to sleep for as long as they want."

" _Face facts, Stiles—when you have me as a date to a dance or any public event in general, you should expect nothing less than a seven a.m. wake up call._ "

"I'd hate to see what you're like during Prom," Stiles mutters.

Lydia gives a noticeable pause.

"What? Why are you so quiet now?" Stiles scoffs.

" _Stiles…are you asking me to Prom?_ " Lydia says carefully.

Stiles flushes. "I was just _saying_ , and no, not like that I wouldn't. You know—if I was—which I'm not saying that I am."

Lydia laughs into the receiver. " _Calm down. I'm only joking. I know you're still holding that unreasonable and totally undeserved torch for a one Scott McCall._ "

"Lydia…"

" _No, no—I think it's sweet. I hate McCall and what he's doing to you, but you're sweet and cute and amazing and if I didn't think you'd hate me for it I would totally claw out his eyes._ "

"Does the name Jackson Whittemore mean nothing in this conversation—"

Lydia says nothing.

"—cause I think it does."

" _Where's that wolf hat at Stiles?_ "

"Still holding onto that _house key_ Lydia?"

" _Fuck you and your low blows._ "

Stiles immediately flushes with guilt. It's way too early for him to be feeling feelings like this or hurting his best friend. "I'm sorry."

" _It's okay. Me too,_ " Lydia mumbles.

"So, um," Stiles starts, scrambling to change the subject. "What's the plan for today?"

Lydia sighs into the phone but it sounds like the happy and anxious sort. " _Well, if you'd just get up and take a shower, you can meet me at the Chakras Spa so we can get pampered for a good hour and a half._ "

"A spa? Really?" Stiles mumbles skeptically but he still grins into his pillow with his eyes closed.

" _Yeah really. It'll be good for us and it'll help us look even more flawless. You know I'll settle for nothing less than looking the best,_ " Lydia says.

"That your slogan?" Stiles teases.

" _Chakras Spa, nine o'clock. You're even a minute late and I'll kick you in the balls. Love you_ ," Lydia chirps before she hangs up.

Stiles snorts and tosses his phone onto his nightstand. He stays in bed a minute longer before he pries himself from the sheets with a tired sigh and staggers to his bathroom. The cold spray of water he tortures himself for the first six minutes helps to wake him up and get rid of his morning hard-on. He switches to warm water and washes up. He waltzes into his room (wet and naked) when he's finished and he catches a good whiff of what smells like bacon and waffles. Stiles snorts as he slides into a fresh pair of smiley boxers, dark jeans and a snug V-neck red t-shirt. His mother never fails to make breakfast every Saturday morning.

He straps on his wristwatch and sees he's still got a good hour before he has to meet up with Lydia—plenty of time to sit down and fill his empty stomach.

Stiles grabs his phone, his keys and a jacket before he exits his room. His skips down the steps with a cheerful whistle. As he enters the kitchen, the first thing he notes is the large stack of waffles on the island counter beside the pitcher of orange juice and the plate of bacon. Stiles puts his hand over his heart and bites his bottom lip dramatically as he makes his way over to the food. If he were a cartoon there would be stars and hearts in his eyes. He snorts at the thought as he plucks a piece of bacon and jams half of it in his mouth before glancing over at the stove.

Stiles chews with a frown when he notices that the frying pan over a still burning fire has some sunny side-up eggs inside and the spatula sticking out from under them, almost like it had been forgotten. His jaw works slowly as his eyebrows furrow together while he moves to the stove and turns it off, giving a thoughtful pause.

His mother usually isn't so careless that she'd leave the stove unsupervised.

There's a resounding thump that comes from the direction of the basement door and Stiles swallows the food in his mouth. He walks forward, grabbing the potato peeler from the dish rack when he passes it and tucks the peeler away in his back pocket.

"Mom?" Stiles calls and waits for the reply that doesn't come. "Dad?"

Another thump and then a groan comes from the behind the basement door.

Stiles fingers twitches at his side and his gut twists unpleasantly. There's a threat here, it's undeniable and he should probably run—but his parents, his _family_ , are more important to him then his own safety.

He reaches out, gets a hand on the doorknob and twists. He barely opens the door an inch before a black cloth bag is shoved over his head from behind and he's shoved down the steps. He lands at the bottom with a painful groan and he's not even given a second before he's being manhandled to his feet and shoved onto a chair. He tastes blood and as he tongues the inside of his cheek and the corner of his mouth, he winces at the cuts he finds there. He's pretty sore around his ribs, his elbows and knees, but luckily nothing's broken or sprained.

Someone grabs his hands and yanks them behind him, tying them together with rope. When they finish tying knots into it, the cloth bag is pulled from his head and he blinks as he's met with the sight of his mother and father, tied down to chairs that sit back to back in front of him. Their mouths are gagged with some kind of thick red scarf and as soon as he meets their frightened gazes they try to shout and yell and utter any type of sound they can to him.

Stiles feels his blood run cold.

The swinging light overhead assures him they aren't badly injured. There's a cut over his dad's left eyebrow and his mother has a growing purple bruise on her right cheek. He swallows thickly as he looks away and tries to peer through the inky black shadows that the light of the swinging bulb overhead can't touch. He makes out at least five more human outlines. He can't really turn his head to look behind him but he guesses there could be two or three more behind him.

Stiles digs deep and scrambles for some form of solidifying calm and resolve.

"Well," Stiles says hoarsely. "Say something—or are we just going to keep playing this S&M version of musical chairs?"

A deep chuckle comes directly from behind him.

"What a mouth you have, Stiles," a deep voice says with amusement.

Stiles squints and cocks his head and tries to see who's behind him. Too dark—no use. He turns his head back to his parents who are still watching him. He tries to assure them with his eyes that everything will be okay while keeping his face carefully blank.

"That's not fair," Stiles mutters. "You knowing my name and me not having a clue who you are."

"Oh we have plenty of time for that," the deep voice assures.

Stiles feels his eyebrows furrow as he notes the pitch of the voice—deep but split between two baritones. He quickly deducts the person must be using a voice modulator. Which could either mean the person is a woman playing a man or a man trying to keep his identity hidden. Either seemed possible.

"Tell me Stiles—what do you know about my kind?" the deep voice asks.

"Your—kind?" Stiles repeats with blatant confusion.

"Come now—don't play coy. I should think all the time you spent with, now what was his name? Scott? Scott McCall?" the deep voice muses. "I should think you know very well of what I speak."

Stiles presses his lips together and looks away from his parents when they look at him with questioning eyes.

"Well I sure do hope I haven't made things uncomfortable for you and your family," the deep voice says with insincerity. "Judging by their flabbergasted expressions, I'd say you haven't told them you've been dating a werewolf."

Stiles fingers twitch against the cork thread rope keeping his wrists together.

Deep Voice tsks. "My, my—you know secrets like that often rip families apart. And a family that makes it their business to hunt my kind down like savaged beasts no less. Why, I can imagine that makes things all the more uncomfortable—doesn't it, Stiles?"

Stiles looks up towards the swinging light. He stiffens when he hears the shift of clothes, followed by the feeling of leather-covered fingers threading into the hair on the crown of his head. The grip is lax and gentle, but even then there is a threat in it.

"You've nothing to apologize for, Stiles. We are not what your family would make us out to be—as you have experienced for yourself. In fact," the deep voice says. "I'd say it is a gift on our side to have you aware of us."

His father glances up at the figure behind him with angry eyes. His mother turns her gaze forward to the unseen wall ahead of her.

"Even if you make it out of this alive—what do you think they will do?" the deep voice asks. "Do you sincerely believe they would continue to treat you like their beloved son? After you have lied to them this whole time? Knowing what they do and what they stand for and _still_ you consort with their enemy."

"What do you want?" Stiles asks, throat dry and ribs aching. He can still taste blood.

"I want you," the deep voice admits. "I want your intelligence. I want your well-roundedness. I want your loyalty." There's a brief pause as the fingers stroke and pet his hair. "I want you to tell me who and where to find the Alpha."

His father's eyebrows furrow as he glances back down at him.

"And why would I do that?" Stiles asks quietly.

"Let's just say, an Alpha such as myself has a personal interest in such things," the deep voice replies vaguely. "In exchange for your generosity, I will do you a kindness and release your parents. And also—I would give you the Bite."

"And if I don't want it?" Stiles asks, looking up into the swinging light again.

The grip in his hair tightens. "Why would you not? The Bite is a gift. And I think your refusal would be horridly rude and disgraceful." Deep Voice shifts behind him. "You could be great you know. You're fantastic now—but you could have more. You could be more."

"I like being a human too much," Stiles mutters.

Deep Voice chuckles. "Shame. I had hoped you would be a lot more agreeable, especially with your parents' life in my hands," the deep voice says.

Stiles's fingers twitch again when he feels the sickening gentle graze of claws slide across the bob of his Adam's apple.

"Shall I just be done with it then?" the deep voice muses lowly. "Have my pack shred your mother and father to ribbons? Bathe in the blood as they relish in the symphony of your horrified screams?"

Stiles feels his heart speed up and his fingers twitch again.

"Or perhaps I should pay a nice little visit to that lovely sister of yours?" the deep voice ponders pleasantly.

Stiles stiffens and his fingers tighten onto the rope around his wrists because just like that, his captor has said the wrong thing.

"Come now, Stiles—let us be done with this charade. You cannot possibly keep up your rebellious and defiant façade. Not when I smell the fear on you so strong boy."

Stiles lips tighten as his right foot slides forward a few inches because just like that, his captor has just given himself away.

"How about this," Stiles says as he calmly meets his father's eyes. "You let me and my family go and I wont hurt you or any of your _pack_."

Deep voice chuckles. "You're in no position to make such deman—"

Stiles doesn't even let them finish before he kicks his right foot up and catches his captor right in the bridge of his nose.

Deep voice stumbles back with a pained cry and Stiles hops up and around his chair, kicking it towards the two figures that try to come at him. They both go flying back into the wall with a groan.

Someone grabs him from behind and Stiles pushes back, slamming them into the wall as he jumps up and kicks the man that tries to come at him head on right in his throat and quickly follows up with a round kick that sends him flying back into the two other guys that try to help in detaining him.

Stiles hops over his arms and uses his teeth to quickly untie the rope around his ropes. He gets the knots undone in time to give a right hook to another goon that tries to make a grab for him. For the next few minutes he kicks about eight heads, punches a few of them three more times when they try for him again and breaks a few fingers, noses, jaws and dislocates some shoulders.

Stiles exhales carefully as his eyes jump from groaning indisposed goon to unconscious goon, all the while keeping a defensive fighting stance. He relaxes when none of them make a move to detain him. He turns to untie his parents but Deep Voice is already there, outfitted in all black, right down to the ski mask.

By this point, Stiles has lost all patience.

"We didn't have to do things this way! I warned you!"

Stiles just sighs and shakes his head, reaching into his back pocket for the potato peeler. He twirls it between the fingers of his left hand as if it were just one of his drumsticks and gives Deep Voice a very bored and unconvinced look.

"Not another move or I will rip their throats out," the deep voice hisses, pressing sharpened claws into the bob of their throats.

"How about this," Stiles starts. "You stop all the bullshit and I'll let you live. Because if you don't—it'll be my potato peeler versus your supposed fast werewolf reflexes."

Deep Voice stares at him for a long while before snapping, "You would not dare to—"

Stiles whips the potato peeler before Deep Voice can even finish the sentence.

Everything in the room goes very still and silent.

Deep Voice gawks at him as his ski mask splits open down the middle and falls like a scarf around his neck. The brown haired eighteen year old looking male with an explosion of freckles across the bridge of his nose that was beneath said mask makes a whimpering noise while his legs shakes in utter fear. Above his head, on the wall behind him, is the potato peeler sticking out from the cement wall like a skilled bull's-eye.

"Holy shit!" Freckles squeaks. "Holy fucking shit dude! You almost killed me!"

Stiles just frowns. "No. If I wanted to kill you I would've aimed lower," he points out and indicates by tapping his pointer finger against the middle of his own forehead.

"Holy fuck!" Freckles says regardless. "You just made me piss myself dude!" He looks down and lifts his hands. "I can't do this anymore Mr. Argent. Your son is insane. I'm just an Acting Major, I didn't sign up for all this! I gotta mom to think about you know!"

Chris rolls his eyes slowly and shakes his head. He stands and shrugs out of his restraints as he yanks the gag from his mouth.

Victoria follows and does the same.

"Alright boys, good job—well, who am I kidding? Good doesn't really define the horrible job you just did. You can all head out now, I'll have words with each of you later about what you did wrong," Chris says and he cocks his head towards the door, giving Freckles a pointed look.

They all groan painfully as they stumble to their feet, helping each other out and dragging their unconscious friends out as they leave. It takes a few minutes but Stiles is left alone with his parents.

"So how old were they?" Stiles asks.

"College freshmen. All too eager to join the ranks and very willing," Chris says merely as he tosses his gag off to the side. "You knew it was a set-up. How?"

"Newbies. Great. I feel insulted," Stiles mutters as he rubs at his sore knuckles. It's been a while since he's physically fought another person, let alone a group of them. "And it was that thing he said about fear that tipped me off. I know from personal experience that I never smell like fear when I should."

Chris looks impressed.

"You know—I don't know whether to be pissed that you pulled this stunt with me or horrified at the idea that you obviously know I know about everything," Stiles says as he glances back and forth between his parents.

"Either way, Stiles," Victoria says as she uses her gag to wipe the fake bruise from her cheek. "I'd say we were gracious considering things."

Stiles feels anger—white hot and burning—and it clouds his chest with smoky irritation. He bites his tongue and internally stomps down on the urge to retaliate as if it were a spreading fire because today isn't the day. Tomorrow maybe, but not today. He exhales carefully and he drowns in serene numbness before he lands his parents with a steady gaze.

"Let's agree to disagree," Stiles says carefully. "We've all been dishonest with each other, and now that we know that, we can sit down and talk about it like _sane_ people by having a _normal_ family meeting."

"You did well," Chris points out, lips curling in amusement. "You did me proud."

"If anything, we needed to know that if it came to it, you'd still have the mind to protect yourself and those you care about," Victoria adds. "As for Scott—"

"Absolutely not," Stiles interjects firmly. "I'm supposed to meet Lydia in ten minutes. We can talk about where my loyalties lie or whatever information about the Alpha and his pack I know you want to question right out of me when I come home after the dance tonight—or in the morning. Preferably in the morning. Now can I go and do some normal teenage stuff or do you want to do something else weird?"

Chris and Victoria look at each other before they give Stiles a subdued and slightly amused headshake.

"Great. Lydia and I will be getting dressed at her house around six so you should go there if you want to take pictures of us," Stiles says and starts walking up the stairs. "I'm just gonna pretend none of this ever happened for the next fourteen hours…"

Chris and Victoria watch as he slams the door behind him.

It doesn't hit Stiles right away. It never does. When he's drunk on that adrenaline high and stuck toeing the line of shrugging back on his hyperactive pacifist personality, it takes a bit before it hits him. He's driving down a long stretch of road while it happens. When the last of that adrenaline fused rush leaks out and a nauseating weariness seeps into his blood, he finds himself yanking his jeep towards the side of the road and scrambling to put it in park. He stumbles out, a few feet into the shallow edge of the forest and falls to his feet beside a tree. He vomits when the events of earlier barrel down on him with unrelenting shame and anger.

He inhales and releases a shuddering exhale that has his eyes burning with tears he tries to blink away. He tries not to think about what he had done—what he had sworn he wouldn't do—what he'd been trying so hard all this time to not do. It makes him so angry, so goddamn angry at his parents for pushing him like that. They know it's not what he wants—never wanted to be and do those things again. The kind of skill he had came with a price—a price he paid too much for a long time ago.

Stiles swallows thickly and counts backwards from twenty, trying avidly to pull himself together. He does what he always has done. He shoves it deep down inside of him, down with the rest of his faulty emotional rubble, splintered hyperactive personality and ill-begotten reminiscent ruins. He shoves it down until he feels like he can forget it—like he can pretend again. He spits twice when his stomach stops heaving and he scrubs at his mouth with his jacket sleeve. Then staggers back to his jeep, climbs in and continues his driving.

Stiles is five minutes late when he pulls into the parking lot of Chakras Spa. Lydia is standing out front with an annoyed frown and her arms crossed as she taps her foot impatiently against the cement sidewalk. Stiles holds up his hands and gets ready to plead his case but she stiffens and growls before he can.

" _Stiles…_ " Lydia's eyes flash silver and narrow on the cut on the corner of his bottom lip.

"Hey! Hey! Careful with that! You can't go all, _you know_ , here. In plain sight! And before you get all ' _grr',_ I don't want to talk about it," Stiles says.

Lydia glares and says, "You have to tell me who hurt you because you smell like tears and—"

"No I dont. You're going to leave it alone because I'm asking you to," Stiles says firmly and gives her a look that says, ' _You owe me because there has been a lot you haven't told me and I haven't bothered you about it even though I really want to'_.

Lydia stares at him a moment longer before her shoulders droop in resignation. "Fine," she mutters and flicks her red hair over her shoulder. "Let's just focus on what we came here for." She spins on her heels and throws open the glass double doors. "Being pampered."

Stiles could do with a little pampering.

Lydia guides him to the check-in counter. She mixes words with a lady that looks like some type of veteran supermodel. They cackle and giggle and do all that weird stuff that females love to do when they congregate. After about five minutes of this Stiles clears his throat and gives Lydia a pointed look. Lydia, in turn, sighs and rolls her eyes, muttering about guys and their impatience but she speeds things along. The veteran supermodel checks them in and points them to the locker rooms, giving them a small note with the locker number and combination.

They take a moment to separate so they can strip down in the locker rooms and put on their towels and bathrobes. Stiles turns his phone off and shoves it into the pocket of his pants before stuffing his clothes away in his assigned locker. He meets Lydia out in the hall. The veteran supermodel leads them to what she calls the pointed tip of their relaxation pyramid. Stiles figures this must mean this is just one of the many pampering sessions that they will endure.

Stiles smiles fondly at Lydia, who acts giddy and excited and completely content. The sight does a lot more to relax him and put him at ease than any deep dead-sea facial mask or seaweed wrap or mud-clay bathe or hot coal massage or basically everything that each of their scheduled fifteen minute sessions brings. But Stiles isn't surprised—he always finds peace in the joy of his loved ones.

Eight hours later, when Lydia asks, he assures her that he had a good time—that any time spent with her is a good time. Lydia gives him this soft-eyed look and loving grin he's sure he gives right back. They loop their fingers together before they go their separate ways in the locker rooms to get dressed. They meet up in the halls again and Stiles is just turning his phone back on while Lydia's chatting away on hers. He has no missed calls but one text message.

 _We need to talk Stilinski. Come to my house as soon as you get this. I live around the corner and three blocks down from Scott on a cul-de-sac. 525 is my house number. It's important. –_ Erica

Stiles frowns thoughtfully as he pushes open the glass double doors and holds it open so Lydia can walk through. Lydia gives him a grateful smile as she continues to talk on the phone. They stand out front like this for two minutes before Stiles makes a gesture at her.

"Uh—hold on, Candace," Lydia says and cups a hand over her phone. "What's up?"

"I have to go do something," Stiles says vaguely but Lydia nods. "I'll still meet you at your house though."

"Okay," Lydia says simply. "That's fine. I have a hair and nail appointment anyway and I know you don't want to sit through that so—yeah. See you later." She leans forward and kisses him on the cheek with a smile.

Stiles grins and quickly loops their pinkies together before he walks off. He mentally prepares himself for this confrontation with Erica.

Twenty minutes later and he's parking his jeep beside the curb of Erica's driveway. He gets out and walks up the steps and onto the porch of the Reyes' house. He lifts his hand to knock but the door whips open before he even has a chance.

There, walking through the doorway, is Jackson Whittemore, looking annoyed and as cocky as ever. He looks a bit worn down too, overtly exhausted, but otherwise not at all like he's been MIA for the past month now. Stiles can't help but to gape a little. Jackson pauses too when he catches sight of him. He seems a little surprised to see Stiles as well but he quickly masks it and settles for an expression that says nothing and no one is worth his valuable time.

Stiles knows he's staring but he's forgotten just how stupidly good-looking the guy is. Jackson really is fit and his time away hasn't done much to change that, if at all. Stiles honestly hadn't wanted to be reminded because despite his unjustifiable attractiveness, Jackson's still a tool.

But never mind that because what the hell?

"Where have you _been?_ " Stiles asks before he can help it and he flushes a little at his own stupidity. It wasn't like they were good friends or that it was any of his business regardless. "I mean—hey," he says with a pathetic excuse for a wave.

"Argent," Jackson greets with a slightly amused look. "You gonna keep staring or you gonna move out my way."

"How about you ask nicely?" Stiles retorts despite the pinkness in his cheeks.

Jackson snorts and his lips twist into something wicked as he shoves a pair of expensive looking Ray-Bans on to hide his eyes. "I only bother with nice when I want someone to play with my dick," he says simply and unabashedly.

Stiles makes a face and steps out of his way. He just wants this confrontation to be over. He might kick Jackson in the head if he keeps making comments about his dick—and yeah, that's not something that Stiles wants to visualize. Finding Jackson indisputably attractive is punishment enough.

Jackson sweeps past him and swaggers down the steps before he gives a sudden pause. His shoulders begin to tense up and his hand tightens into a fist around his car keys. Then, weirdly enough, he looks over his shoulder and traces his eyes over Stiles's face before resting on his lips.

"You gotta be kidding me," Stiles mutters with a long-suffering sigh.

Jackson frowns and flicks his gaze up before he says, "Smile for me Argent."

"Why? Are you high?" Stiles asks with a confused frown.

"Just do it so I can get out of here," Jackson mutters impatiently.

Stiles gives the most sarcastic smile he can muster and flashes his middle finger.

Jackson snorts with a wry smirk that's way too amused then what Stiles had wanted. "Perfect. Just what I thought," he sighs and grins. "It's not you—that's a relief. Talk about avoiding tragedy."

Stiles lifts an eyebrow at him and before he can ask what he means, Jackson waltzes off to his ridiculously nice Porsche and out of sight. Stiles just sighs and shakes it off. He turns to knock and jumps when he sees Erica already standing in the doorway with an amused grin.

"Jackson's a stubborn idiot," Erica says. "And so in denial it's not even funny anymore."

Stiles opens his mouth.

Erica interjects, "Come on, this will only take minute." She yanks down on the hem of her gray sweatshirt and turns without another word.

Stiles is forced to follow her into the house, up the stairs and into her room. She makes a flimsy gesture to the edge of her bed and she shoves a cigarette between her cracked lips and lights the tip. Stiles sits down and laces his fingers together on his lap. He pretends not to see the picture of Isaac, Scott and Erica resting on Erica's nightstand to his far right.

Erica grabs her desk chair and drags it over, setting it directly in front of Stiles. She plops down onto it and takes a deep drag of her cigarette.

Stiles watches the tip of it glow orange and distantly hopes she doesn't blow the smoke right in his face. He wouldn't put it past her if she did.

"You smoke?" Erica asks after a while, blowing the smoke out the side of her mouth with surprising courtesy.

"No," Stiles admits.

"Hm," Erica hums as she takes another inhale. "You mind if I do?" she asks with a pinched voice as she holds the smoke in before exhaling it over her shoulder.

"Would it matter?" Stiles counters.

Erica grins and shakes her head.

"Well then I guess I don't," Stiles says dryly.

Erica hums again and glances over to the far wall of her room. They sit in silence for a good while before she says, "Do you love him?"

Stiles frowns.

"Scott," Erica clarifies as she turns her gaze on him. "Do you love him?"

Stiles doesn't answer right away, not entirely sure where this is going. His eyebrows furrow together as he replies, "He never really gave me the chance to."

"You care about him," Erica says and it isn't a question. "He's not meant for you, you know."

Something raw like surprise and anger makes Stiles blinks at her like she's something foreign.

Erica looks as if she's used to it. "He's not," she presses. "But I don't expect you to take my word for it. Wouldn't exactly be the first time," she bitterly chuckles. She takes another thoughtful drag from her cigarette. "He does love you. But I don't think he really understands what it means. If he did—well things would be a bit different now wouldn't they?"

"Did you bring me here to talk about Scott?" Stiles says flatly. He's trying not to let his irritation show.

"Not entirely," Erica says vaguely as she cocks her head and reaches for ash tray by her feet. She flicks her cigarette twice. "I guess what I'm trying to say concerning him is that while he isn't the one, you have someone that's actually _meant_ for you who will be everything you've waited for. It's not anybody you'd ever consider, which makes it better because even when we think we know what we want or what's good for us, we're often wrong." She shrugs. "This person is going to help you get through the difficult times ahead. Understand that I'm using the word ' _difficult_ ' very loosely. But I can't say much more than that."

Stiles crosses his arms as he stares at Erica.

"And you need to remember that while I may know more things than I should, I'm not some kind of wind-up toy and I don't—I wont have all the answers." She blows out a breath of smoke as she stands and walks over to her work desk. She picks up something and turns back to him. "Here," she says and hands him a napkin.

"What is this?" Stiles asks as he takes it and looks it over.

"An address."

Stiles lifts a skeptical and questioning eyebrow.

Erica rolls her eyes with sigh and says, "You'll know what it means when the time is right. Not to sound cliché or anything. But—there's going to be a point in the near future where your going to want answers and you're first instinct will be to seek me out, only I'll be incapacitated at the time—virtually useless. Caterpillar to butterfly effect and all that." She smiles sadly to herself.

Stiles frowns and stares down at the words scribbled across the napkin in black ink.

"The important thing for you to remember is that everything happens for a reason," Erica says as she exhales a breath of smoke. "And what makes the difference about those moments is what we choose to do in the midst of them. Let things run their natural course." She reaches out and rests a hand over his. "Stilinski—when you go home, I want to come with you. I can help."

"When I—what?" Stiles asks with reasonable confusion.

Erica just lifts her cigarette to her mouth with cryptic grin. "Ask me again—at the end of the semester."

Stiles frowns again.

"Now get out of here. I've got things to do," Erica says with a dismissive wave.

Stiles is out on the road before he knows it and heading towards Lydia's house. He's rubbing tiredly at one eye as he keeps his other hand on the top of his steering wheel. He's a bit tired, physically and emotionally, and driving down the long stretch of road with nothing but miles upon miles of trees on either side isn't really encouraging his energy at the moment. But then there is a flash of light behind him and when he looks in his rear view mirror he sees the unmistakable outline of Derek's black Camaro. He frowns as he watches Derek's headlights flash at him two more times and against his better judgment he pulls over onto the side of the road.

Derek does the same behind him, and as Stiles climbs out to meet him halfway his steps falter when Scott climbs out of the passenger seat of his car. It takes him a moment but he continues forward until he's a few steps away from Scott and Derek.

Derek glances between them briefly before he turns away with a gruff, "You have five minutes."

Scott jerks forward instantly, tangling their fingers together and pulls Stiles a few paces away. Stiles is ready to voice his thoughts but he's being swept up into a desperate kiss. His knees go weak and his fingers tighten into Scott's shirt in a weak attempt to push him away. He's so angry but—he just—he's missed this. He's missed Scott.

And Scott—

Scott kisses him like he wants to suck the very essence out of him. He kisses Stiles until neither of them can breathe. He kisses with frustration and desire and desperation. It makes Stiles want to cry. It makes Stiles want to punch and scream at Scott. Because feeling anything for him always ends in disappointment. It makes him think about Erica's words and he wonders if this is some kind of twisted confirmation.

When Scott pulls back their both breathing hard and he presses their foreheads together. Stiles has no words—except he has a lot of words. His tongue is too heavy in his mouth for him to say any of them.

"Can I just hold you?" Scott murmurs. "Please?"

Stiles looks at Scott and he has so much he wants to say. So much. But Scott is looking at him like his world will end if Stiles rejects him.

"Damn you," Stiles whispers and pulls him in. He holds Scott close and shuts his eyes as Scott squeezes him and buries his nose into the side of his neck. "You're too much for me, Scott," he says with bitter amusement as he strokes his fingers through Scott's hair. "Too much."

"I'm sorry," Scott mumbles into his skin and he seems to really mean it, just like he always means everything he says.

"Don't—just—let's not even. This is just—it'll have to be enough," Stiles says firmly and tightens his arms around Scott.

Scott nods and continues to breath against the crook of Stiles's neck.

The forest hums around them, and nothing but the wind and the leaves can be heard as they stay this way. Stiles doesn't want to let go. He doesn't understand why it feels like he is, like he's _really_ letting go. He barely even understands what going on as a whole but, this—

—it feels like goodbye.

"Scott," Derek calls.

Scott winces and holds Stiles tighter.

"We have to go. We've been away long enough," Derek continues.

"Just a few more minutes," Scott pleads into Stiles's collarbone. It twists something bitter in Stiles's gut.

"You know I can't afford to do that," Derek says. "Let's go."

Scott loosens his hold slowly and steps back in a way that seems almost painful for him to do. He looks at Stiles for one final time, no words and easily readable dark brown eyes, before he spins on his heel and climbs back into Derek's black Camaro.

Stiles swallows thickly as his hands balls into a fist. He doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Doesn't think.

Derek glances at him with an incomprehensible expression before he climbs in as well.

Then, they're gone.

By the time Stiles reaches Lydia's house, it's fifteen minutes after the Formal has already started and he's pushed the events of earlier way down so he can function as a proper date like Lydia deserves. The last thing he expects is Lydia to be walking out her front door, hauling her dress is one hand and her designer bag in the other.

"I'm so sorry, Stiles. Bethany's date bailed on her last minute and she's have this kind of acne stress crisis," Lydia says as she tries to gesture towards her own face but her arms are too full. "Anyway, she's in need of a major makeup intervention and who better to spearhead it but me?"

"Right," Stiles says because at this point that's all he can say. He knows when Lydia is lying—has always been able to tell at the drop of a hat, and usually she's doing it to _others_ , with _others,_ and right now it feels really fucking insulting to have it directed at him. "Right," he repeats.

Lydia pauses and she looks uncomfortable. She must sense that he knows she isn't telling the truth. "Um," she continues and she looks guilty and a bit of something else. "You're suit's upstairs. I took the time to, um, take it out the plastic and…" she trails off as she looks away. "It should fit really nice—the color we picked is—is great."

Stiles nods and calmly tucks his hands away in the pockets of his jacket.

Lydia fidgets for a moment and it's kind of silly, her holding the dress when its obvious she isn't really going to put it on.

Stiles shifts his mouth from side to side before he holds out his hands.

Lydia's green eyes are glassy at this point but she looks grateful as she hands her dress and her bag over.

"I'll hang it up in your closet," Stiles says quietly. "You kept the receipt right?"

Lydia turns her head away as she sniffs and croaks, "Yeah. Yeah I kept it." _I knew I'd need it._

Stiles nods with a bitter sort of smile.

"Um," Lydia starts, quickly drying her cheeks as she turns back. "I can wait here for a bit. I want to—to drop you off. I mean there's no reason why you still can't go and it'd—make me feel better if I could…"

Stiles understands what she's trying to say. He walks forward and into the house, up to her room. Lydia follows and takes her dress back so she can hang it up herself. Stiles just sets her bag down on the nightstand and mechanically begins undressing so that he can put on his suit. It's a charcoal gray colored suit and the button down shirt he wears underneath is a crisp white while the tie he puts on is a jet-black slim sort of tie. The shoes he wears is the same color as his belt and tie and are squared toed shoes. As he buttons his suit jacket, Lydia looks at him with a softly fond smile.

"God," Lydia breathes and sniffs while she grabs her phone. "I have such fucking good taste." She snaps some pictures.

Stiles grins a little. "You should think about becoming a stylist then," he says.

Lydia pauses and looks at him as if he's odd. "Stiles—I wasn't talking about the damn suit you moron," she mutters with an amused headshake.

Stiles chuckles a little and rolls his eyes.

Lydia snaps a few more pictures before she calls her mom to come over. When Mrs. Martin does, Lydia hands her phone over and hugs Stiles close and propping leg up as she smiles widely. Mrs. Martin captures the moment three times over before she frowns and asks Lydia why she isn't dressed. Lydia tells her mom not to worry about it and she drags Stiles out the door, grabbing her phone back on the way out. Lydia ushers Stiles into her car and the ride to the school is a silent one. She keeps their fingers tangled together the whole time though.

Lydia pulls into the parking lot and pulls around towards the entrance of the gymnasium where other students, decked out in suits and dresses are walking in and out of. They sit in silence for a little while, only the hum of the engine and the deep bass of music coming from the open double doors of the gymnasium filtering between them.

"Do you hate me?" Lydia asks quietly.

"I don't see how I ever could. Pissed is a more correct term to use right now. Agitated and worried are also accurate," Stiles admits as he looks over at her.

Lydia smiles and leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

"This is going to suck without you," Stiles complains half-heartedly as he turns his head and kisses her on the corner of her lips.

"I know—I'm horrible," Lydia says and lowers her gaze. "But I swear to you," she starts as her green eyes rise to meet his. "I'm going to explain everything to you tomorrow. _Everything_."

Stiles studies her closely before he nods.

"Try and have some fun for me okay? It'll make my night a little less rough than it's going to be," Lydia says as she sits back.

Stiles nods before he lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles. She smiles at him and he climbs out of her car. She pulls off and he tucks his hands in his pockets as he watches her drive off. He stands there a few more minutes before he makes his way inside. His mood is already dipping as he steps into the strobe/disco painted walls and floorboards of his school's gymnasium. He can tell that the decorating committee had fun with outfitting the place with balloons and streamers and confetti and every party novelty a person can think of. There are a few tables patched together beside the refreshment table and the photo backdrop stand, leaving the rest of the floor free and giving the DJ booth and the dance floor a wide berth.

Stiles sighs and makes his way over to the punch bowl. He grabs a paper cup and pours himself a sizeable portion before he unbuttons his suit jacket and finds a decent spot to sit on the bleachers. For the next two hours, he sulks and makes that one cup of punch last a pathetically long time. He can honestly count on five hands how many people he's turned down when asked to dance.

Yeah, it's pretty depressing.

Stiles is polite enough, don't get him wrong. Some of the players from his team come over to chat him up for a few minutes and he does his best to be civil. The same can be said of the other people he recognizes from his classes or even the ones he doesn't. He cant be surprised that so many people know him, hanging out with Lydia gets you that kind of spotlight. And he's been to enough social gatherings with her to know that being apart of her inner-circle and getting this much attention basically comes with the territory. Stiles isn't in a very good mood right now so this fact is a bit taxing at the moment.

He just wants to continue to watch everyone else have a good time while he continues to brood over his stale cup of punch.

"You look like your having a great time," a voice sarcastically drawls.

Stiles frowns and glances over in time to see Jackson sitting down beside him. And of course he looks amazingly decked out in some sort of dark blue Armani suit or something. He leans back against the bleachers and looks effortlessly unperturbed. Stiles kinds of hates him for it, and then he hates himself for even caring enough to hate Jackson for something like that.

"So what?" Jackson says after a while as his eyes roam the dance floor. "You get stood up or something?" he asks. He sits up and reaches inside of his jacket and pulls out a silver flask, uncapping the top and taking a quick swig. "Kinda hard to believe if that's the case," he mutters after he swallows.

Stiles continues to look at him with a frown.

Jackson finally looks back at him with a smirk. "Just saying. I saw more people ask you to dance then me. I'm understandably envious of course," he says dryly.

Stiles snorts and shakes his head, prying his eyes away to look elsewhere. "I wasn't stood up— _per say_ ," he admits vaguely. "And yeah, I guess I'm not having a good time."

"Oh yeah?" Jackson says and there's some kind of underlying meaning in his tone. "I should think you'd be on top of the world right now. Two loving parents and an amazing sister. Captain of the lacrosse team, good-looking and popular—not to mention your dating the most beautiful woman in the entire school."

Stiles's jaw tightens.

"I guess I really don't understand what _you_ would have to be upset about," Jackson says as his lips curl unkindly.

Rather than responding, Stiles stands and walks away.

He's angry enough that he contemplates snapping Jackson's collarbone, and that kind of thought doesn't sit right with him. His stomach hurts terribly, no doubt because of the wear and tear of his stressing, and his head is beginning to throb. The cool night air is an actual relief and his walk to the lacrosse field helps to calm him down. He's glad that the lights are on as he climbs to the top of the bleachers and sits down. He wouldn't want to be sitting out here in the dark. He's a little down but not fucking depressed.

Stiles takes a moment to loosen his tie and sit his feet on top of the row below him so he can lean forward and press his forehead into his knees. He closes his eyes and concentrates on breathing, on the sound of crickets and the wind and the sound of leaves rustling. It centers him, allows him to sort out his feelings and try to figure things out. He's lost in this until he hears another set of feet climbing the bleachers and his row shakes a little when someone sits beside him.

"So I might have been wrong."

"Fuck off Jackson," Stiles mutters and doesn't bother lifting his head. He doesn't care for Jackson's obviously guilt-ridden non-apology.

"Alright," Jackson says agreeably. "I deserve that."

"You deserve a punch to the face but I was nice enough to not give it to you."

"I said alright," Jackson grumbles and shifts. "I was a dick, I get that."

Stiles snorts in agreement.

"Guess I'm a little down too," Jackson admits, albeit guardedly. "Guess we're in the same boat."

"Really? Cause my boat's kinda sinking right now," Stiles mumbles. "Can't even swim. And I'm not even speaking hypothetically anymore."

"You can't swim?"

"I'm sure I just said that."

"Not even hypothetically huh?"

"Not even."

"That sucks," Jackson says indifferently. "I think we got one hypothetical life jacket and I'm too pretty to die metaphorically. How much do you weigh anyway?"

"Something over one-fifty last time I checked," Stiles confesses.

"Hm," Jackson hums thoughtfully. "Too fat. Can't carry you, sorry to say. I'd have to let you drown man."

"How heroic of you," Stiles retorts sarcastically but he sits up and hides his smile into the back of his hand.

"Not really," Jackson supposes. "I'm probably the most selfish person you've ever met. Definitely the most good-looking right?" he jokes and bumps his shoulders with Stiles.

"Right," Stiles agrees flatly and watches as Jackson smirks out of the corner of his eye. "We're not dating, you know."

Jackson turns to him with a frown.

"Lydia and I. We're not dating. Don't know where your getting your sources from dude but—there's no need for the whole jealous ex-boyfriend act," Stiles assures and fiddles with the knot of his tie as he looks back onto the field. "We're just friends. Best friends." He turns and looks at Jackson with a shrug. "She's the Catwoman to my Batman, you know?"

Jackson doesn't say if he does.

"And—and being captain isn't something I planned alright? I just wanted on the team. I didn't mean to steal your spotlight or anything but—this," Stiles says as he cocks his head to the lacrosse field. "This is something I love and while Scott's kind of actually not delivered on his end as co-captain, I'm doing the best I can. We got a good chance of making state." Stiles doesn't really know why he's bothering to say all this. He looks back out onto the field. "My parents are crazy so you can have them if you want them. My sister's ran off with a guy she's known for only about two months maybe. To _elope._ "

Jackson shifts beside him but he keeps quiet.

"My love life is shit because the guy I really wanted didn't really want me enough to—I just—I don't even know. Lydia's ran off to do whatever she's been keeping from me and I'm stuck here at a dance I don't even want to be at, spilling my guts to some guy who's been missing for a month and thinks my life is perfect and it's fucking not. Not at _all_. And I'm sad for so many reasons I can't even begin to say, because I never say, I never have anyone to say _to_." Stiles pauses to tug at his tie again, this time with frustration. "I'll take that other thing you said though—the part about being good-looking, not popular. Being popular kind of sucks because everyone's always in your face at the worst times and I just can't _even_ deal."

The crickets are making more sound than Jackson is currently.

"So yeah. That," Stiles says with a sigh. "Feel free to get up and leave and pretend this never happened because I sure as hell will." He fidgets and mutters, "Fucking embarrassing."

Five beats of silence pass and Stiles hates every second of it because he feels more vulnerable and exposed than he's ever been, and he might be picking the worse time and person to do it with.

After a while, Jackson does stand, and he does move, but he steps down so that he can face Stiles fully.

Stiles looks at him with a frown.

Jackson just shrugs and says, "Could be worse."

"What?" Stiles says because—what?

"At least your not crying," Jackson says with the most sincere tone Stiles has ever heard him use.

Stiles laughs, he can't help him. Somehow its funny and messed up and just what he needs to hear in a weird way.

Jackson grins a little and looks down as he reaches a hand into his inner pocket and pulls out his silver flask. He offers it.

"No thanks. I'm not sad enough to get trashed," Stiles says.

Jackson snorts and twists the cap off. "Dude, it's just ginger ale," he clarifies and offers it again.

Stiles takes it with a bit of confusion, tipping it into his mouth carefully and surprisingly enough, it is just ginger ale. He licks his lips and gives it back.

"I'm allergic to most of those dyes they put in punch," Jackson explains and takes a sip himself. He continues, "Just a safe precaution I take."

"Why not just drink out of the can or bottle?" Stiles questions.

Jackson merely shrugs and says, "More convenient for a guy like me that doesn't like holding stuff in his hands. And it makes me look more badass."

Stiles stares at Jackson and realizes that he's serious. He laughs and shakes his head, hiding his face behind his left hand as his shoulders shake.

"I don't like to be laughed at, Argent," Jackson mutters as he tucks his flask away and puts his hands into the pockets of his dress pants.

"Don't stay funny things," Stiles retorts with a chuckle and calms down enough to sigh. He takes a moment to study Jackson.

"What?" Jackson says with a frown but he's anything but self-conscious.

"Nothing just—" Stiles shakes his head thoughtfully. "You're—a lot different than I imagined."

Jackson's frowns deepens but he shrugs.

"We didn't exactly hit it off in the beginning," Stiles points out. "So I kind've had you pegged as douchebag."

"I am," Jackson agrees dryly.

"Not really," Stiles counters. "Not like you try to make yourself out to be." He chews on his thumbnail. "Guess Lydia wasn't so crazy for dating you."

Jackson flips him the bird and turns, making his way down the bleachers. Stiles thinks that he might have offended him but he looks over his shoulder and says, "Coming?"

Stiles hesitates before he nods, standing to his feet and stepping down. The two of them walk silently side-by-side back towards the school. Their stride slows when they step into the parking lot and see the ambulance, police cars and fire truck. Everyone's crowded outside and conversing with curious and unsettled expressions.

"What happened?" Stiles asks, not really expecting Jackson to know.

Jackson doesn't answer, but he flags a blonde that's wearing a red mermaid-type dress. "Hey Roxanne what's going on?" he asks as soon as she's within range.

"I don't know. One minute we're dancing and the next thing I know someone's screaming and everybody starts looking up and there, hanging from the ceiling, is Principal Chadwick," Roxanne explains. "No one knows how longs he'd been strung up there but we were all ushered out here—"

Stiles feels his pocket vibrate and he steps away so he can pull it out.

It's his father.

"Hello?" Stiles says, answering immediately. He frowns and presses a finger to his other ear to drown out the sound of sirens and chatter. "Dad I cant—say that again."

" _I said you need to come to the hospital right now. There's been an accident with your mother and your aunt—and your sister. It's—it's bad._ "

Stiles feels his hands begin to shake and he lowers the phone. He swallows thickly and tries not to freak out.

Jackson glances over at him and frowns. He says something to Roxanne before he turns and makes his way over. "You alright? You're looking a little pale and—"

"Hospital," Stiles whispers.

"What?"

Stiles swallows again and says, "I need to get to the hospital. I—my dad called—I need to get there."

Jackson studies him for a moment and says, "Do you need a ride?"

Stiles nods and tries to steady his hands.

"Okay. Well my car's this way," Jackson says, nodding his head to the left side of the park. They walk to his Porsche and climb in wordlessly.

It takes them a good fifteen minutes before they can properly exit the parking lot because of all traffic and the ambulance and the cop cars and everything else. It begins to rain and Stiles tries not to think. He tries not to fidget or twitch or make any kind of assumptions. His heart feels heavy inside of his chest and upsettingly omnipresent.

When they get close, Stiles texts his dad and his father lets him know which floor to find them on. Jackson drops him off at the E.R. and Stiles barely waits before the car has completely stopped before he jumps out. He finds the nearest elevator with the guidance of some random nurse and he punches in the floor number as his hands start to shake again. He fidgets, walking back and forth as he waits for the elevator to come to a stop. Those first few moments are just torture.

The elevator finally comes to a stop and the doors ping open. Stiles swallows as his eyes begin to burn with tears while he looks at his father, who's talking to two officers. He has dirt and blood all over him and a few cuts and bruises.

Stiles inhales sharply as his heart begins to throb.

Chris spots him just as the officers walk off.

"Dad," Stiles croaks as he walks forward.

Chris looks at him with red eyes and an apologetic expression that stabs him right in the chest.

"D-dad," Stiles stammers and stills when he looks into window of the room behind him. There's a black body bag on the table.

"You're mother's—she's pretty banged up but your Aunt Kate's dead," Chris struggles. "Your sister—she's in a coma. Her throat was—they don't really know if she's going to make it through the night."

"No!" Stiles snaps and glares at his father. "This is just another one of your sick tests."

"Stiles—"

"We're—we're supposed to talk tomorrow. I told you I'd—I said I'd talk about it tomorrow…"

"Stiles—"

"Say it!" Stiles hisses as tears spill down his cheeks. "Dad please—please say it," he sobs as his knees grow weak. "Say this is just—just—"

Chris reaches out and pulls him close. "I'm so sorry, Stiles. So sorry," he whispers as he rocks him. "So sorry…"

Stiles shakes his head and sobs, yells and fights. His father just holds him through it all. He whimpers Allison's name over and over again, praying and wishing that this wasn't real.

But it was.

And Stiles—

He was devastated.

Stiles doesn't know how long he cries. It feels like forever. His heartache and pain feels like forever. He cries until he can't cry anymore, until he's completely drained and numb. His father ushers him over to a chair and goes in search of some tissue and some water. A nurse wheels his mother over a little bit later. She assures Stiles that his mother should be fine, she's got some broken ribs, and a sprained wrist. His mother glances at him with glossy eyes and Stiles can tell that she's pretty doped up.

Chris returns when he finds water and tissue and gives Stiles a moment to gather himself before he ushers the both of them out the hospital.

Despite his protests, Chris drives them home and drops him off. He promises to keep Stiles updated about his sister and to try and explain just what happened come morning. He just doesn't want Victoria sitting in the hospital in a wheelchair all night. He says that she'd rest better if she was home, and with her being drugged the way she is, it'd make him feel better if Stiles was there to keep an eye on her. Stiles reluctantly agrees in the end and helps his father carry his mother up to their room and tuck her in.

When he's sure that she's settled and that Stiles will be okay, Chris hugs him and leaves out to return to the hospital and keep watch over Allison. Stiles sits at his mother's bedside for a little while, knees tucked under his chin and arms hugging his legs to him. Victoria's breathing is a bit shallow but Stiles figures its because of her ribs. He plans on staying there all night but a sound in his backyard changes that. He waits a moment and when he hears the sound again, his shoulders tense up with anger. He stands and puts a hand on his mother's cheek before he exits the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Stiles walks down the steps and into his kitchen, pulling free one of the larger knives from the wooden holder beside the kitchen sink. He walks over to the kitchen's screen door and unlocks it before sliding it open and slipping through. He traces his eyes along the edge of the woods a few meters behind his house as he walks forward, listening carefully for any type of sound.

A faint growl and rustle comes from his far left and Stiles whips the butcher knife without hesitation. His lips tighten when he hears the evident sound of a pained snarl. He quickly scuttles in the direction of the sound and stops when he sees a vague outline in the shadows but unmistakable strawberry red hair.

Stiles fists tighten and his anger grows hot and thick in his throat. "Lydia?"

Lydia growls but makes no move to come closer.

"Lydia—you need to stay away from right now," Stiles says shakily, trying to contain himself. "I don't want to do anything we're both going to regret because I don't know what happened tonight but I'm not exactly feeling like myself."

"Yeah?" Lydia rumbles as she steps out of the shadows, body completely naked, hair wild and bushy, and she's covered in dirt and blood from head to toe. The knife Stiles threw at her is peeking out from her right shoulder. She reaches up and wraps a clawed hand around the handle and pulls it out with a grunt. The wound closes up in an instant. "Guess that makes two of us," she smirks as her eyes flashes with red.

Stiles breath catches.

"Guess what?" Lydia smirks, red eyes gleaming. "I'm the Alpha now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well. That's it. Not really but that's all for this part of the series. I'll add another chapter that will basically be a break down and character sketch of each character of this story to sort of clarify everything that's happened and what you all can expect in the future. Feel free to ambush me with questions so I can get them answered as best as I can. Part 2 is the interlude which will be in Jackson's point of view and very important to the series so be sure to keep on the lookout for that. It'll explain where he's been the past month and also drop some spoilers for the next part of the series.
> 
> This has been fun and you all have been amazing. Please comment, and as always, thanks for reading. :-))


	11. Chapter 11

_The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance._

_**― Alan Watts** _

888

" _I'm the Alpha now_."

Stiles runs the words over and over in his mind, combing through it for some kind of explanation.

Lydia smirks and lifts the butcher knife he threw at her with patient amusement. She frowns quickly at her reflection and says, “God, my hair,” like she isn’t _naked_ with _blood_ and _dirt_ splattered all over her skin. She sighs thoughtfully and stabs the butcher knife into the tree beside her and chips off bark go flying from the force of it. It sticks out and twinkles tauntingly with the moonlight.

“Lydia,” Stiles says, and that’s all he says for three beats. “Kate is dead.”

Lydia smiles suddenly. “So is Peter, but you and I aren't going to cry over them are we?”

Stiles swallows and his fingers twitch anxiously. “Nope. No weeping over funeral pyres, for us.”

Lydia smirks and looks at him with those cold red eyes. It's not right.

Stiles stares. That’s all he can do for one breathless moment because he’s not even sure if this is his best friend he’s talking to or some—some—

“Monster?” Lydia says with a gravelly voice. “It’s okay. You can say it. I see it in that stupid face you make sometimes.”

Stiles swallows again as he glances to the butcher knife briefly. “What face?”

“The kind that makes me want to punch you,” Lydia replies calmly with steady red eyes. “I’m not different, you know. Just more— _more_.”

“How, uh—” Stiles feels blood surging and rushing through his entire body, twitching with adrenaline and anger and confusion. “How—how much more are you now?”

“Funny story that,” Lydia mutters as she studies her bloody claws lazily. It’s so odd, how calm she is, it’s so odd. She looks up at him and flashes a bit of fang. He's taller than her but she still gives off the impression that she's two heads taller than anyone else in the world.

It’s slightly disconcerting. Stiles swallows dryly again. “Care to—to share with the rest of the class?”

Lydia’s smirk widens and it’s absolutely terrifying.

Stiles’s gaze drifts to the knife sticking out of the tree. It moves slightly and Stiles has to blink rapidly because that can't be right. Things don't just move on their own.

Lydia tsks, as if she knows what he’s thinking. “Don’t do that, Stiles. Don’t treat me like I’m something you need to hunt.”

“Then tell me what to do here!” Stiles snaps and looks back at her. “I don’t even—no one is telling me anything!”

Lydia strides forward and begins to circle him, sniffing at him quietly.

Stiles fingers twitch as his arms lay limply at his sides and he tenses when she escapes his line of sight before she presses herself against his back with a low rumble. She’s like a furnace against his backside. She uses her bloody claws to rip open the collar of his dress shirt so she can slide her nose along his exposed collarbone.

Stiles shivers at the contact and goose bumps break out all across his skin but he isn’t afraid. She won’t hurt him, she cant. She _cant._

“You smell sad,” Lydia murmurs, plush lips searing hotly across his pulse point. She gives a lazy lick and rumbles contently. Scenting him—she was _scenting_ him. “I should bite you.”

Stiles trembles angrily. “Don’t,” he chokes warningly.

Lydia growls and she wraps a clawed hand around the back of his neck so she can shove him to his knees. She grips his hair and forces him to look up at her in all her wild, naked glory. She looks untamed and daring. “Why shouldn’t I? I have all these tiny receptors blinking into my brain, telling me I should. My wolf wants me to. You smell like home, like cub, like _mine_.”

Stiles breathes for a long moment and tries to find his best friend in those red eyes. He tries so very hard to focus on that and not think about the distance between him and that butcher knife. He won’t be Kate. This may be an Alpha but it's still  _Lydia._ He can sort this out rationally. He quietly says, “You can’t.”

“ _Why_?” Lydia hisses as her eyes flash dangerously and she looks so greedy and selfish and confident. She honestly sounds confused.

Stiles feels his hands begin to tremor and the air suddenly feels too sharp. The ground feels like it's pulsing underneath him and the wind whispers through the trees, and it's like he can hear the forest talking to him. There's a panic attack coming, and his heart thumps painfully fast because he's so confused.

"Tell me why I shouldn't."

Stiles licks his lips and says, “Because I don’t want it. I don’t want you to. And you would never force that on me.”

Lydia says nothing. She stares down at him for a long moment before she looks at his Adam’s apple with a predatory gleam. “I don’t know if I can help myself. I’m sorry, I just, I really want to because you smell like—I—” She pauses and blinks. The red in her eyes shudder like static. “I already bit Erica and Isaac. But they wanted it. They should want it. Peter and Derek used to say that the bite is a gift.”

“Lydia,” Stiles intones quietly. “I don’t want it.

“I ran into Jackson,” Lydia continues and her claws flex in Stiles’s hair. “He knew and I don’t know _how_ he knew but he smelled like—and he asked me to—because he understood that only an Alpha can. He said it’d only be right if he belonged to my pack. He wanted it and I gave it to him even though I didn’t care. I didn’t care about any of them. After I killed Peter, I needed…” Lydia stares at his throat like she can’t help it. “I needed you. You were already— _you are_ pack.”

“Lydia, don’t,” Stiles beg, his voice trembling. “I can still be pack but I—I’ll be human, okay? Please don’t. I would hate you. You know I would.”

Lydia growls and shoves him away as she wanders over to the tree with the knife sticking out of it and circles it as she begins to partially shift. Her wolf form looks even more severe than before. “I need you, Stiles. I need—you’re pack,” she whines.

Stiles can hear the struggle to control herself in her voice but he can’t make himself care. He’s still upset about his mother and his sister. He rises to his feet. “What happened tonight? Lydia, you need to tell me. If you care at all—”

“Of course I do!” Lydia snaps but her words come out like a bark. She looks so wild—naked with dirt and blood and bushy hair. Her red eyes keep shuddering like static. “I did what I had to do tonight for you! For us! For everyone!” She begins to claw at the tree angrily.

 _“Did it include tearing my sister to shreds?”_ Stiles shouts.

Lydia stops and stares at him. “You think I had something to do with that? You think I had any idea?" she shouts back.

"Well I wouldn't really know, now would I? You have too many secrets. Your secrets have fucking secrets!" Stiles snaps.

Lydia shakes her head. "I didn’t—that was—it was Peter. Peter lured Allison to the Hale house as bait for your Aunt Kate. Kate brought your mom and she got caught in the crossfire.”

“How did he even—how did he even get Allison to—”

“Matt,” Lydia interrupts and she twitches like she wants to tackle him to the ground and—and—

Stiles blushes. He’s read about this. New Alpha’s have this thing where they go on a rut. He knows Lydia must be out of her mind because she doesn’t want him like that. They’re like siblings. “What happened to Matt?” he asks, clearing his throat pointedly.

Lydia twitches again and blinks before she says, “Peter killed him. He caught up with them just as they were eloping and he took them. He’d been planning it for a while. He went all the way to Vegas for them.”

Stiles realizes with sickening clarity that all this time his sister was being held captive by a maniac. All those unreturned calls from Allison suddenly made sense and Stiles feels _sick._ Had Derek known? Had Scott?

“I didn’t know,” Lydia swears. “Neither of us did. Only Boyd and Danny were in the loop. Derek, Scott, and I had been training to take Peter down because he wanted to bite everyone in the whole damn town. He was insane. But we still didn’t know about Allison or Kate.”

Stiles clenches his trembling hands into fists.

The butcher knife in the tree tremors.

Neither of them notice.

“Peter had Allison clawed up by the time we worked it out. When we all got there, your mother was on the floor and he had Kate by the throat,” Lydia continues as she watches him without blinking. “I didn’t think he’d hurt Allison. But the next thing I knew was that Kate was crying how sorry she was for the fire that killed the Hales. He made her repeat it at least eight times before he tore her throat open. Derek tried to take him down with Scott but he was too strong. So Isaac threw something on Peter and Erica—she—she did something, I don’t know. It was like magic and suddenly Peter was on fire.”

Stiles knows what comes next but he just stares at the shaking knife sticking out from the tree as his body goes numb.

“When Peter fell, I took advantage of it because Derek or Scott would’ve and it—they don’t see the bigger picture. We have to make—to be pack. Something's bad coming. Peter drew too much attention to himself with his theatrics and not there’s a coven of Trapper Witches—” Lydia stops as her nose twitches and she seems at a loss for words. “Please don’t be angry with me.”

Stiles exhales shakily as his eyes begin to water. He doesn’t know what he thinks about all of it. He just knows that his older sister and his mother got hurt and he wasn’t there to do anything about it because they didn’t tell him anything. “You should go,” he whispers hoarsely. “You should go because I really want to hurt you and if my sister doesn’t pull through…”

“Stiles—”

“I don’t want to hate you!” Stiles snaps before he turns his back on her. “Please don’t make me hate you.” He swallows and walks away as his chest swells with anger and hurt. “I need time to think,” he whispers, but he knows that she can hear.

“Peter’s dead, Stiles. And I think I know why he was trying to involve you. I need to keep you safe from—”

“Don’t,” Stiles warns quietly. “Just give me some space.”

Lydia doesn’t protest as he disappears into the house.

The butcher knife stops trembling.

( **THE END. BUT THE SERIES WILL BE CONTINUED THROUGH THE NEXT INSTALLMENTS.** )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the full chapter will be included in the third installment which will be up very soon. :))


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